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“AS I RODE ALONG, I MEDITATED 


{Seepage 143) 





THE 


MAKING OF A SAINT 

BY ^ 

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


illusttateti 

BY GILBERT JAMES 




MCOPY, TWO copies RECEWEJ- 


. \A ^ 


80?1 

Copyright^ i8g8 

By L. C. Page and Company 

(incorporated) 


Colonial ^Press: 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, U. S. A. 


Qua7ito e bella giovinezza^ 

Che si fugge tuttavia ; 

Chi vuol esser lieto^ sia, 

Di dojnan non Ce certezza. 

Youth — how beautiful is youth ! 

But, alas, elusive ever ! 

Let him be light of heart who would be 
For there’s no surety in the morrow. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

“ As I Rode Along, I Meditated ” . Frofitispkce 
“‘You Need Have No Fear about Your Char- 
acter,’ I Answered, Bitterly” . . -113 

“ It Was Empty but for a Few Rapacious 
Men, Who Were Wandering About, Like 

Scavengers” 223 

“In a Bound I Had Reached Him” . *329 









INTRODUCTION. 


These are the memoirs of the Beato Giuliano, 
brother of the Order of St. Francis of Assisi, known 
in his worldly life as Filippo Brandolini, of which 
family I, Giulo Brandolini, am the last descendant. 
On the death of Fra Giuliano, the manuscript was 
given to his nephew, Leonello, on whom the estates 
devolved, and has since been handed down from 
father to son, as the relic of a member of the family 
whose piety and good works still shed lustre on the 
name of Brandolini. 

It is, perhaps, necessary to explain how the resolu- 
tion to give these memoirs to the world has eventu- 
ally been arrived at. For my part, I should have 
allowed them to remain among the other papers of 
the family ; but my wife wished otherwise. When 
she deserted her home in the New World to become 
the Countess Brandolini, she was very naturally inter- 
ested at finding among my ancestors a man who had 
distinguished himself in good works, so as to be 
granted by the Pope the title of Beatus, which was 
acquired for him by the influence of his great-nephew 


12 


INTRO D UC TION. 


not very long after his death ; and, indeed, had our 
house retained the prosperity which it enjoyed dur- 
ing the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, he would, 
undoubtedly, have been canonised, for it was a well 
certified fact that the necessary miracles had been 
performed by his remains, and that prayers had 
been regularly offered at his tomb, but our estates 
had- dwindled, so that we could not afford the neces- 
sary expenditure ; and now, when my wife has re- 
stored its ancient magnificence to our house, times, 
alas ! have changed. The good old customs of our 
fathers have fallen into disuse, and it is impossible to 
create a saint for ready money. However, my wife 
desired to publish an account of her pious ancestor. 
But a difficulty arose in the fact that there were no 
materials whatever for any relation of the life which 
Fra Giuliano led when he had entered the Franciscan 
monastery of Campomassa, and it was obvious that, 
even if there had been good works, prayer and fast- 
ing could not have afforded a very interesting story ; 
and so we have been constrained to leave untold his 
pieties, and recount, instead, his sins, for which there 
was every facility in the memoirs he had himself left 
behind him. 

Not content with writing the story of his own life. 
Fra Giuliano begins with a mythical Consul of the 
Roman Republic, who is supposed to have founded 
the family by a somewhat discreditable union with 


INTR OD UC TION, 


13 


somebody else’s wife. He then carries the story 
through countless ages till he arrives at his own con- 
ception, and the prodigies attending his birth, which 
he describes with great minuteness. He gives very 
amply the history of his childhood and boyhood, the 
period he spent as page at the Court of the Benti- 
vogli of Bologna, and his adventures in the Neapoli- 
tan armies under the Duke of Calabria; but the 
whole story is narrated at such length, with so many 
digressions and details, and is sometimes so vague, 
incoherent, and disjointed that, with whatever edit- 
ing, it was considered impossible to make a clear 
and continuous narrative. 

Fra Giuliano himself divided his life into two 
parts : the one he named the Time of Honey, being 
the period of expectation ; the other the Time of 
Gall, being that of realisation. The second half 
commences with his arrival at the town of Forli, in 
the year 1488, and it is this part which we have 
decided to publish ; for, notwithstanding its brevity, 
this was the most eventful period of his life, and the 
account of it seems to hang together in a sufficiently 
lucid fashion, centring around the conspiracy which 
resulted in the assassination of Girolamo Riario, and 
finishing with the author’s admission to the Order of 
St. Francis. This, then, I have given exactly as he 
wrote it, neither adding nor suppressing a word. I 
do not deny that it would have pleased me a little 


14 


INTROD UC TION. 


to falsify the history, for the Anglo-Saxons are a race 
of idealists, as is shown in all their dealings, inter- 
national and commercial ; and truth they have always 
found a little ugly. I have a friend who lately wrote 
a story of the London poor, and his critics were 
properly disgusted because his characters dropped 
their aitches, and often used bad language, and did 
not behave as elegantly as might be expected from 
the example they were continually receiving from 
their betters ; while some of his readers were 
shocked to find that people existed in this world 
who did not possess the delicacy and refinement 
which they felt palpitating in their own bosoms. The 
author forgot that Truth is a naked lady, and that 
nudity is always shameful, unless it points a moral. 
If Truth has taken up her abode at the bottom of a 
well, it is clearly because she is conscious that she is 
no fit companion for decent people. 

I am painfully aware that the persons of this 
drama were not actuated by the moral sentiments, 
which they might have acquired by education at a 
really good English public school, but one may find 
excuse for them in the recollection that their deeds 
took place four hundred years ago, and that they 
were not wretched paupers, but persons of the very 
highest rank. If they sinned, they sinned elegantly, 
and much may be forgiven to people whose pedigree 
is above suspicion. And the writer, as if unwilling 


INTRO D UCTION 


IS 


to wound the susceptibilities of his readers, has taken 
care to hurl contempt at the only character whose 
family was distinctly not respectable. 

Before making my bow, and leaving the reader 
with Filippo Brandolini, I will describe his appear- 
ance, shown in a portrait painted in the same year, 
1488, and till the beginning of this century in the 
possession of my family, when it was sold, with many 
other works of art, to travellers in Italy. My wife 
has succeeded in buying back the portraits of several 
of my ancestors, but this particular one is in the col- 
lection of an English nobleman, who has refused to 
part with it, though kindly allowing a copy to be 
made, which now hangs in the place formerly occu- 
pied by the original. 

It represents a middle-sized man, slim and grace- 
ful, with a small black beard and moustache ; an 
oval face, olive coloured, and from his fine dark eyes 
he is looking straight out into the world with an ex- 
pression of complete happiness. It was painted soon 
after his marriage. He is dressed in the costume of 
the period, and holds a roll of parchment in hi-s hand. 
At the top right-hand corner are the date and the 
arms of the family; or a griffin rampant — Jules 
crest — a coronet. The motto — Felicitas, 










THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


CHAPTER I. 

‘‘Allow me to present to you my friend, Filippo 
Brandolini, a gentleman of Citta di Gastello/’ 

Then, turning to me, Matteo added, “ This is my 
cousin, Checco d’Orsi.” 

Checco d’Orsi smiled and bowed. 

“ Messer Brandolini,” he said, “ I am most pleased 
to make your acquaintance ; you are more than wel- 
come to my house.” 

“ You are very kind,” I replied ; “ Matteo has told 
me much of your hospitality.” 

Checco bowed courteously, and asked his cousin, 
“You have just arrived, Matteo.^” 

“We arrived early this morning. I wished to 
come here directly, but Filippo, who suffers from a 
very insufferable vanity, insisted on going to an inn 
and spending a couple of hours in the adornment of 
his person.” 

“ How did you employ these hours, Matteo ? ” 
17 


l8 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

asked Checco, looking rather questioningly at his 
cousin’s dress, and smiling. 

Matteo looked at his boots and his coat. 

“ I am not elegant ! But I felt too sentimental to 
attend to my personal appearance, and I had to re- 
store myself with wine. You know we are very 
proud of our native Forli wine, Filippo.” 

“ I did not think you were in the hahit of being 
sentimental, Matteo,” remarked Checco. 

“It was quite terrifying this morning, when we 
arrived,” said I ; “he struck attitudes, and called it 
his beloved country, and wanted to linger in the 
cold morning and tell me anecdotes about his child- 
hood.” 

“You professional sentimentalists will never let 
any one sentimentalise but yourselves.” 

“ I was hungry,” said I, laughing, “ and it didn’t 
become you. Even your horse had his doubts.” 

“ Brute ! ” said Matteo. “ Of course, I was too 
excited to attend to my horse, and he slipped over 
those confounded stones, and nearly shot me off, — 
and Filippo, instead of sympathising, burst out 
laughing.” 

“ Evidently you must abandon sentiment,” said 
Checco. 

“ I’m afraid you are right. Now Filippo can be 
romantic for hours at a stretch, and, what is worse, 
he is — but nothing happens to him. But on coming 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 1 9 

back to my native town after four years, I think it 
was pardonable/' 

We accept your apology, Matteo," I said. 

“But the fact is, Checco, that I am glad to get 
back. The sight of the old streets, the Palazzo, all 
fill me with a curious sensation of joy, — and I feel 
— I don’t know how I feel.” 

“ Make the utmost of your pleasure while you can ; 
you may not always find a welcome in Forli,” said 
Checco, gravely. 

“What the devil do you mean } ” asked Matteo. 

“Oh, we'll talk of these things later. You had 
better go and see my father now, and then you can 
rest yourselves. You must be tired after your jour- 
ney. To-night we have here a great gathering, 
where you will meet your old friends. The count has 
deigned to accept my invitation.'' 

“ Deigned } '' said Matteo, lifting his eyebrows 
and looking at his cousin. 

Checco smiled bitterly. 

“ Times have changed since you were here, 
Matteo,’' he said; “the Forlivesi are subjects and 
courtiers now.'' 

Putting aside Matteo's further questions, he bowed 
to me and left us. 

“ I wonder what it is,” said Matteo. “ What did 
you think of him?” 

I had examined Checco d'Orsi curiously, — a tall, 


20 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


dark man, with full beard and moustache, apparently 
about forty. There was a distinct likeness between 
him and Matteo : they both had the same dark hair 
and eyes ; but Matteo’ s face was broader, the bones 
more prominent, and the skin rougher from his 
soldier’s life. Checco was thinner and graver, he 
looked a great deal more talented ; Matteo, as I 
often told him, was not clever. 

He was very amiable,” I said, in reply to the 
question. 

‘'A little haughty, but he means to be courteous. 
He is rather oppressed with his dignity of head of 
the family.” 

But his father is still alive.” 

‘‘Yes, but he’s eighty-five, and he’s as deaf as a 
post and as blind as a bat ; so he remains quietly in 
his room while Checco pulls the strings, so that we 
poor devils have to knuckle under and do as he bids 
us.” 

“ I’m sure that must be very good for you,” I said. 
“ I’m curious to know why Checco talks of the count 
as he did ; when I was here last they were bosom 
friends. However, let us go and drink, having done 
our duty.” 

We went to the inn at which we had left our 
horses, and ordered wine. 

“ Give us your best, my fat friend,” cried Matteo 
to mine host. “This gentleman is a stranger, and 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


21 


does not know what wine is ; he was brought up on 
the sickly juice of Citta di Gastello/' 

“You live at Citta di Gastello?" asked the inn- 
keeper. 

“ I wish I did," I answered. 

“ He was ejected from his country for his country's 
good," remarked Matteo. 

“That is not true," I replied, laughing. “I left 
of my own free will." 

“Galloping as hard as you could, with four-and- 
twenty horsemen at your heels." 

“ Precisely ! and so little did they want me to go 
that, when I thought a change of air would suit me, 
they sent a troop of horse to induce me to return." 

“Your head would have made a pretty ornament 
stuck on a pike in the grand piazza." 

“The thought amuses you," I answered, “but the 
comedy of it did not impress me at the time." 

I remembered the occasion when news was 
brought me that the Vitelli, the tyrant of Gastello, 
had signed a warrant for my arrest ; whereupon, 
knowing the rapid way he had of dealing with his 
enemies, I had bidden farewell to my hearth and 
home with somewhat indecent haste. . . . But the 
old man had lately died, and his son, proceeding 
to undo all his father's deeds, had called back the 
Fuoruseiti, and strung up from the Palace windows 
such of his father's friends as had not had time to 


22 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


escape. I had come to Forli with Matteo, on my 
way home to take possession of my confiscated 
property, hoping to find that the intermediate pro- 
prietor, who was dangling at a rope’s end some 
hundred feet from the ground, had made sundry 
necessary improvements. 

“Well, what do you think of our wine ?” said Mat- 
teo. “ Compare it with that of Citta di Gastello.” 

“ I really haven’t tasted it yet,” I said, pretending 
to smile agreeably. “ Strange wines I always drink 
at a gulp, — like medicine.” 

“ Brutta bestia!" said Matteo. “You are no 
judge.” 

‘‘ It’s passable,” I said, laughing, having sipped it 
with great deliberation. 

Matteo shrugged his shoulders. 

“ These foreigners ! ” he said, scornfully. Come 
here, fat man,” he called to the innkeeper. ‘‘Tell 
me how Count Girolamo and the gracious Caterina 
are progressing When I left Forli the common 
people struggled to lick the ground they trod on.” 

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Gentlemen in my profession have to be careful 
in what they say.” 

“ Don’t be a fool, man ; I am not a spy.” 

“Well, sir, the common people no longer struggle 
to lick the ground the count treads on.” 

“ I see.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 23 

“You understand, sir. Now that his father is 
dead — 

“ When I was here last, ^Sixtus was called his 
uncle.'’ 

“Ah, they say he was too fond of him not to be 
his father ; but, of course, I know nothing. Far be 
it from me to say anything in disparagement of his 
Holiness, past or present.” 

“However, go on.” 

“Well, sir, when the Pope died, the Count Girolamo 
found himself short of money, — and so the taxes that 
he had taken off he put on again.” 

“And the result is — ” 

“ Well, the people are beginning to murmur about 
his extravagance ; and they say that Caterina be- 
haves as if she were a queen ; whereas we all know 
that she is only the bastard of old Sforza of Milan. 
But, of course, it has nothing to do with me ! ” 

Matteo and I were beginning to feel sleepy, for we 
had been riding hard all night ; and we went up-stairs, 
giving orders to be called in time for the night’s 
festivity. We were soon fast asleep. 

In the evening Matteo came to me, and began 
examining my clothes. 

“I have been considering, Filippo,” he said, “that 
it behoves me, on my first appearance before the eyes 
of my numerous lady-loves, to cut the best figure I 


can. 


24 


THE MAKING OF A SA/NT. 


“I quite agree with you,” I answered; “but I 
don’t see what you are doing with my clothes.” 

“Nobody knows you, and it is unimportant how 
you look ; and, as you have some very nice things 
here, I am going to take advantage of your kindness, 
and — ” 

“ You’re not going to take my clothes ! ” I said, 
springing out of bed. Matteo gathered up in his 
arms various garments, and rushed out of the room, 
slamming the door and locking it on the outside, so 
that I was left shut in, helpless. 

I shouted abuse after him, but he went away 
laughing, and I had to manage as best I could with 
what he had left me. In half an hour he came to 
the door. “ Do you want to come out ? ” he said. 

“ Of course I do,” I answered, kicking the panel. 

“ Will you promise not to be violent ? ” 

I hesitated. 

“ I sha’n’t let you out unless you do.” 

“Very well ! ” I answered, laughing. 

Matteo opened the door and stood bolt upright on 
the threshold, decked out from head to foot in my 
■ newest clothes. 

“ You villain ! ” I said, amazed at his effrontery. 

“You don’t look bad, considering,” he answered, 
looking at me calmly. 


CHAPTER II. 


When we arrived at the Palazzo Orsi, many of the 
guests had already come. Matteo was immediately 
surrounded by his friends, and a score of ladies beck- 
oned to him from different parts of the room, so that 
he was torn away from me, leaving me rather discon- 
solate alone in the crowd. Presently I was attracted 
to a group of men talking to a woman whom I could 
not see ; Matteo had joined them, and they were 
laughing at something he had said. I had turned 
away to look at other people when I heard Matteo 
calling me. 

‘‘ Filippo,” he said, coming towards me, ‘‘come and 
be introduced to Donna Giulia ; she has asked me to 
present you.” 

He took me by the arm, and I saw that the lady 
and her admirers were looking at me. 

“ She's no better than she should be,” he whis- 
pered, in my ear, “but she's the loveliest woman 
in Forli ! ” 

“ Allow me to add another to your circle of adorers, 
Donna Giulia,” said Matteo, as we both bowed, — 

25 


26 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ Messer Filippo Brandolini, like myself a soldier of 
distinction.’’ 

I saw a graceful little woman, dressed in some 
Oriental brocade ; a small face, with quite tiny fea- 
tures, large brown eyes, which struck me at the first 
glance as very soft and caressing, a mass of dark, red- 
dish brown hair, and a fascinating smile. 

‘‘ We were asking Matteo where his wounds were,” 
she said, smiling on me very graciously. “ He tells 
us they are all in the region of his heart.” 

“In that case,” I answered, “he has come to a 
more deadly battlefield than any we saw during the 
war.” 

“ What war } ” asked a gentleman who was stand- 
ing by. “ Nowadays we are in the happy state of 
having ten different wars in as many parts of the 
country.” 

“ I was serving under the Duke of Calabria,” I 
replied. 

“ In that case your battles were bloodless.” 

“ We came, we saw, and the enemy decamped,” 
said Matteo. 

“ And now, taking advantage of the peace, you have 
come to trouble the hearts of Forli,” said Donna 
Giulia. 

“ Who knows how useful your swords may not be 
here ! ” remarked a young man. 

“ Be quiet, Nicolo ! ” said another, and there was 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


27 


an awkward silence, during which Matteo and I looked 
at one another in surprise, and then every one burst 
out talking, so that you could not hear what was 
said. 

Matteo and I bowed ourselves away from Donna 
Giulia, and he took me to Checco, standing in a group 
of men. 

“ You have recovered from your fatigue he asked, 
kindly. 

‘‘You have been travelling, Matteo.?'' said one of 
the company. 

“Yes, we rode sixty miles yesterday," he replied. 

“ Sixty miles on one horse ; you must have good 
steeds and good imaginations," said a big, heavy-look- 
ing man, — an ugly, sallow-faced person, whom I hated 
at first sight. 

“ It was only once in a way, and we wanted to get 
home." 

“You could not have come faster if you had been 
running away from a battle-field," said the man. 

I thought him needlessly disagreeable, but I did 
not speak. Matteo had not cultivated the golden 
quality. 

“You talk as one who has had experience," he 
remarked, smiling in his most amiable manner. 

I saw Checco frown at Matteo, while the bystand- 
ers looked on interestedly. 

“ I only said that," added the man, shrugging his 


28 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


shoulders, because the Duke of Calabria is rather 
celebrated for his retreative tactics/' 

I entertained a very great respect for the duke, who 
had always been a kind and generous master to me. 

‘‘Perhaps you do not know very much about tac- 
tics," I remarked, as offensively as I could. 

He turned and looked at me, as if to say, “ Who 
the devil are you ! " He looked me up and down 
contemptuously, and I began to feel that I was almost 
losing my temper. 

“ My good young man," he said, “ I imagine that 
I was engaged in war when your battles were with 
your nursemaid." 

“ You have the advantage of me in courtesy as well 
as in years, sir," I replied. “ But I might suggest 
that a man may fight all his life, and have no more 
idea of war at the end than at the beginning." 

“ It depends on the intelligence," remarked Matteo. 

“ Exactly what I was thinking," said I. 

“What the devil do you mean.?" said the man, 
angrily. 

“ I don't suppose he means anything at all, Ercole," 
put in Checco, with a forced laugh. 

“ He can answer for himself, I suppose," said the 
man. A flush came over Checco's face, but he did 
not answer. 

“ My good sir," I said, “ you have to consider 
whether I choose to answer." 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


29 


** Jackanapes ! 

I put my hand to my sword, but Checco caught 
hold of my arm. I recovered myself at once. 

‘‘I beg your pardon, Messer Checco,'’ I said; 
then, turning to the man, ‘‘You are safe in insult- 
ing me here. You show your breeding! Really, 
Matteo, you did not tell me that you had such a 
charming fellow countryman.” 

“You are too hard on us, Filippo,” answered my 
friend, “for such a monstrosity as that, Forli is not 
responsible.” 

“ I am no Forlivese, thank God ! Neither the 
count nor I.” He looked around scornfully. “ We 
offer up thanks to the Almighty every time the fact 
occurs to us. I am a citizen of Gastello.” 

Matteo was going to burst out, but I anticipated 
him. “ I, too, am a citizen of Gastello ; and allow 
me to inform you that I consider you a very insolent 
fellow, and I apologise to these gentlemen that a 
countryman of mine should forget the courtesy due 
to the city which is sheltering him.” 

“You are a Castelese ! And, pray, who are 
you ? ” 

“ My name is Filippo Brandolini.” 

“ I know your house. Mine is Ercole Piacentini.” 

“ I cannot return the compliment ; I have never 
heard of yours.” 

The surrounders laughed. 


30 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


‘‘ My family is as good as yours, sir,’' he said. 

Really, I have no acquaintance with the mid- 
dle classes of Gastello ; but I have no doubt it is 
respectable.” 

I noticed that the listeners seemed very contented, 
and I judged that Messer Ercole Piacentini was not 
greatly loved in Forli ; but Checco was looking on 
anxiously. 

‘‘You insolent young boy!” said the man, furi- 
ously. “ How dare you talk to me like that ! I will 
kick you I ” 

I put my hand to my sword to draw it, for I was 
furious, too ; I pulled at the hilt, but I felt a hand 
catch hold of mine and prevent me. I struggled ; 
then I heard Checco in my ear. 

“ Don’t be a fool,” he said. “ Be quiet ! ” 

“ Let me be ! ” I cried. 

“ Don’t be a fool ! You’ll ruin us.” He held my 
sword, so that I could not draw it. 

Ercole saw what was going on ; his lips broke into 
a sarcastic smile. 

“You are being taught the useful lesson of discre- 
tion, young man. You are not the only one who has 
learnt it.” He looked around at the bystanders. . . . 

At that moment a servant came to Checco and 
announced, — 

“ The count I ” 

The group broke up, and Checco advanced to the 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


31 


further end of the hall, with Ercole Piacentini and 
several other gentlemen. Matteo and I lingered 
where we were. There was a rustle, and the count 
and countess appeared, attended by their suite. 

First of all my eyes were attracted to Caterina ; 
she was wonderfully beautiful. A tall, well-made 
woman, holding herself proudly, her head well poised 
on the neck, like a statue. 

One would think she was a king’s daughter ! ” 
said Matteo, looking at her with astonishment. 

“It is almost Francesco’s face,” I said. 

We both had an immense admiration for Francesco 
Sforza, the King of Condottieri, who had raised him- 
self from a soldier of fortune to the proudest duchy 
of the world. And Caterina, his natural daughter, 
had the same clear, strong features, the strong pierc- 
ing eyes, but instead of the Sforza’s pockmarked 
skin, she had a complexion of rare delicacy and 
softness ; and afterwards she proved that she had 
inherited her father’s courage as well as his appear- 
ance. . . . She was dressed in a gorgeous robe of 
silver cloth, glittering and shimmering as she walked, 
and her hair was done in her favourite manner, inter- 
twined with gold and silver threads ; but the wonder- 
ful chestnut outshone the brilliant metals, seeming to 
lend their beauty rather than to borrow it. I heard 
her speak, and her voice was low and full, like a 
man’s. 


32 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


Matteo and I stood looking at her for a minute ; 
then we both broke out, Per BaccOy she is beautiful ! 

I began thinking of the fairy stories I had heard 
of Caterina at Rome, where she had enchanted every 
one by her loveliness, and Sixtus had squandered 
the riches of the Church to satisfy her whims and 
fancies : banquets, balls, pageants, and gorgeous cere- 
monies ; the ancient city had run red with wine and 
mad with delight of her beauty. 

Suddenly Matteo said to me, “Look at Girolamo !'* 

I lifted my eyes, and saw him standing quite close 
to me, — a tall man, muscular and strong, with big, 
heavy face, and prominent jaw-bones, the nose long 
and hooked, small, keen eyes, very mobile. His skin 
was unpleasant, red and coarse ; like his wife, he was 
dressed with great magnificence. 

“ One sees the sailor grandfather in him,'’ I said, 
remembering that Sixtus’s father, the founder of the 
family, was a common sailor at Rovese. 

He was talking to Checco, who was apparently 
speaking to him of us, for he turned and stepped 
forward to Matteo. 

“ The prodigal has returned,” he said. “ We will 
not fail to kill the fatted calf. But this time you 
must stay with us, Matteo ; we can give you service 
as well as the Duke of Calabria.” 

Matteo smiled grimly; and the count turned to me. 

“ Checco has told me of you, also, sir ; but I fear 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


33 


there is no chance of keeping you, you are but a 
bird of passage, — still, I hope you will let us make 
you welcome at the Palace/’ 

All the time he was speaking, his eyes kept mov- 
ing rapidly up and down, all around me, and I felt he 
was taking in my whole person. . . . After these 
few words he smiled, a harsh, mechanical smile, 
meant to be gracious, and with a courteous bow 
moved on. I turned to Matteo, and saw him look- 
ing after the count very sourly. 

What is it ” I asked. 

He is devilish condescending,” he answered. 
“ When last I was here, it was hail-fellow-well-met ; 
but, good God ! he’s put on airs since then ! ” 

‘‘Your cousin said something to the same effect,” 
I remarked. 

“ Yes, I understand what he meant, now.” 

We strolled around the room, looking at the people 
and talking. 

“Look,” I said, “there’s a handsome woman!” 
pointing to a voluptuous beauty, a massive creature, 
full-breasted and high-coloured. 

“Your eye is drawn to a handsome woman like 
steel to a magnet, Filippo,” answered Matteo, laughing. 

“Introduce me,” I said, “if she is not ferocious.” 

“ By no means ; and she has probably already 
fixed her eyes upon you. But she is wife to Ercole 
Piacentini.” 


34 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


“ I don’t care. I mean to kill the man afterwards ; 
but that is no reason why I should not make myselt 
pleasant to his spouse.” 

‘‘You will do her a service in both ways,” he re- 
plied ; and, going up to her, “ Claudia,” he said, 
“your fatal eyes have transfixed another heart.” 

Her sensual lips broke into a smile. 

“ Have they that power ? ” She fixed them on 
me, and made room on the couch on which she 
was sitting. Neither Matteo nor I were slow to take 
the hint, for I took my place and he his leave. “ I 
wonder you have not already fallen victim to Ma- 
donna Giulia,” said Claudia, looking languorously at 
me and glancing over to the other lady. 

“ One does not worship the moon when the sun is 
shining,” I replied, politely. 

“ Giulia is more like the sun, for she gathers all 
men in her embrace. I am more modest.” 

I understood that the rival beauties were not good 
friends. 

“You boast that you are cruel,” I replied. She 
did not answer, but sighed deeply, smiling, and fixed 
on me her great, liquid eyes. 

“ Oh, there is my husband.” I looked up and saw 
the great Ercole glaring viciously at me. I laughed 
within myself. 

“ He must be very jealous of so beautiful a wife ? ” 
I asked. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


35 


Oh, it's terrible ; he torments me to death." 

Under these circumstances I thought I would 
pursue my advantage ; I pressed closer to her. 

‘‘ I can understand it : the first moment I saw 
you, I felt my head whirl." 

She gave me a very long glance from beneath her 
eyelashes. I seized her hand. 

“Those eyes!" I said, looking into them fer- 
vently. 

“ Ah 1 " she sighed, again. 

“ Madam," said a page boy, coming up to her, 
“ Messer Piacentini begs that you will come to 
him." 

She gave a little cry of annoyance. 

“ My husband ! " Then, rising from her seat, she 
turned to me, holding out her hand ; I immediately 
offered my arm, and we solemnly crossed the room 
to Ercole Piacentini. Here she bowed very gra- 
ciously to me, and I smiled on the happy husband 
with the utmost sweetness, while he looked very 
grim and took not the slightest notice of me ; then 
I marched off, feeling particularly pleased with 
myself. 

The count and countess were on the point of 
taking their departure ; they were followed by Ercole 
and his wife ; the remaining guests soon went, and 
in a little while there were left only Matteo and 
myself, two other men, and Checco. 


CHAPTER III. 


Checco led us to a smaller room, at some distance 
from the great hall of the reception ; then, turning 
to a man I did not know, he said, ** Did you hear the 
Piacentini ? '' 

‘‘Yes!” he answered; and for a moment they 
looked at one another silently. 

“ He would not have been so bold without good 
cause,” added the man. 

I was told that his name was Lodovico Pansecchi, 
and that he was a soldier in the count’s pay. 

Checco turned round, and looked at me sharply. 
Matteo understood what he meant, and said, “ Have 
no fear of Filippo ; he is as safe as myself.” 

Checco nodded, and made a sign to a youth, who 
immediately rose and carefully closed the door. We 
sat still for awhile ; then Checco stood up and said, 
impatiently, “I cannot understand it.” He walked 
up and down the room, stopping at last in front 
of me. 

“You had never seen that man before ? ” 

“ Never I ” I answered. 

36 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


37 


“The quarrel was brought on solely by Ercole 
himself/' said the youth, whom I found to be Ales- 
sandro Moratini, a brother of Giulia dalF Aste. 

“I know," said Checco, “but he would never have 
dared to behave thus unless he knew of some design 
of Girolamo." He paused a moment to think, then 
turning to me again, “ You must not challenge him." 

“ On the contrary," I replied, “ I must challenge 
him ; he has insulted me." 

“ I don't care about that. 1 will not have you 
challenge him." 

“This concerns myself alone." 

“Nonsense! You are a guest of my house, and 
for all I know it is just such an opportunity as this 
that Girolamo is seeking." 

“I don't understand," I said. 

“ Listen," said Checco, sitting down again. “ When 
Sixtus obtained possession of Forli for his nephew, 
Girolamo Riario, I, like the fool I was, did all I could 
to bring the town to his allegiance. My father was 
against the plan, but I bore down his opposition and 
threw the whole power of my house on his side. 
Without me he would never have been Lord of 
Forli." 

“I remember," said Matteo. “You used Sixtus 
to keep the Ordelaffi out ; and you thought Girolamo 
would be a catspaw in our hands." 

“ I did not give the city for love of a person I had 


38 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

never seen in my life. . . . Well, this was eight years 
ago. Girolamo took off the heaviest taxes, granted 
favours to the town, and entered in solemn state with 
Caterina.” 

“Amid shouts and cheers,” remarked Alessandro. 

“ For awhile he was more popular than ever the 
Ordelaffi had been, and when he went out the people 
ran to kiss the hem of his garment. He spent the 
great part of his time in Rome, but he employed the 
riches of the Pope in beautifying Forli, and when he 
came it was one round of feasts and balls and gaiety. 

“Then Pope Sixtus died, and Girolamo settled 
here for good in the palace which he had commenced 
building on his accession. The feasts and balls and 
gaiety continued. Whenever a distinguished stranger 
passed through the town, he was welcomed by the 
count and his wife with the most lavish hospitality ; 
so that Forli became renowned for its luxury and 
riches. 

“ The poets ransacked Parnassus and the ancients 
for praises of their ruler, and the people echoed the 
panegyrics of the poet. . . . 

“ Then came the crash. I had often warned Giro- 
lamo, for we were intimate friends — then. I told 
him that he could not continue the splendour which 
he had used when the wealth of Christendom was 
at his command, when he could spend the tribute 
of a nation on a necklace for Caterina. He would 


Tnt MAKING OF A SAiNT. 


39 


not listen. It was always, ‘ I cannot be mean and 
thrifty,’ and he called it policy. ‘To be popular,’ he 
said, ‘I must be magnificent.’ The time came when 
the Treasury was empty, and he had to borrow. He 
borrowed in Rome and Florence and Milan, — and all 
the time he would not retrench, but rather, as his 
means became less, the extravagance became greater ; 
but when he could borrow no more outside, he came 
to the citizens of Forli, first, of course, to me, and I 
repeatedly lent him large sums. But these were not 
enough, and he sent for the richest men in Forli and 
asked them to lend him money. Naturally they could 
not refuse. But he squandered their money as he had 
squandered his own ; and one fine day he assembled 
the Council.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Alessandro, “ I was there then. I 
heard him speak.” 

Checco stopped, as if for Alessandro. 

“ He came to the Council-chamber, clad as usual 
in the richest robes, and began talking privately to 
the senators, very courteously, — laughing with them, 
shaking their hands. Then, going to his place, he 
began to speak. He talked of his liberality towards 
them, and the benefits he had conferred on the town ; 
showed them his present necessities, and finally asked 
them to reimpose the taxes which he had taken off 
at the beginning of his reign. They were all preju- 
diced against him, for many of them had already lent 


40 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


him money privately, but there was such a charm in 
his discourse, he was so persuasive, that one really 
could not help seeing the reasonableness of his de- 
mand. I know I myself would have granted him 
whatever he asked.” 

“ He can make one do anything he likes, when he 
once begins talking,” said Lodovico. 

The Council unanimously voted the reimposition 
of the taxes, and Girolamo offered them his thanks in 
his most gracious manner.” , . 

There was a silence, broken by Matteo. 

And then } ” he asked. 

‘‘Then,” answered Checco, “he went to Imola, 
and began spending there the money that he was 
gathering here.” 

“ And what did they think of it in Forli } ” 

“ Ah, when the time came to pay the taxes they 
ceased their praises of Girolamo. First they mur- 
mured beneath their breath, then out loud ; and 
soon they cursed him and his wife. The count 
heard of it and came back from Imola, thinking, by 
his presence, to preserve the town in its allegiance. 
But the fool did not know that the sight of him 
would redouble the anger of the populace. They 
saw his gorgeous costumes, the gold and silver 
dresses of his wife, the jewels, the feasting and 
riotry, and they knew that it came out of their 
pockets ; the food of their children, all that they 


THE MAKING OE A SAINT, 


41 


had toiled and worked for, was spent on the insane 
luxury of this papal favourite and his bastard 
wife/’ 

‘‘ And how has he treated us ? ” cried Lodovico, 
beating his fist violently down on the table. ‘‘ I was 
in the pay of the Duke of Calabria, and he made me 
tempting offers, so that I left the armies of Naples 
to enter the papal service under 6im. And now, for 
four years, I have not received a penny of my salary, 
and when I ask him, he puts me aside with gentle 
words, and now he does not even trouble to give me 
them. A few days back I stopped him in the piazza, 
and, falling on my knees, begged for what he owed 
me. He threw me violently away, and said he could 
not pay me, — and the jewel on his breast was worth 
ten times the money he owed me. And now he 
looks at me with frowns, me who have served him 
faithfully as a dog. I will not endure it ; by God ! I 
will not.” He clenched his fists as he spoke, trem- 
bling with rage. 

‘‘And you know how he has served me,” said 
Checco. “ I have lent him so much that he has not 
the face to ask for more ; and how do you think he 
has rewarded me ? Because I have not paid certain 
dues I owe the Treasury, he sent a sheriff to demand 
them ; and when I said I would not pay them at that 
moment, he sent for me, and himself asked for the 
money.” 


4 ^ 


TH^ MAKim OP A SAINT. 


“ What did you do ? 

“ I reminded him of the money he owed me, and 
he informed me that a private debt had nothing to 
do with a debt to the State, and said that I must 
pay, or the law should take its course.” 

He must be mad,” said Matteo. 

‘‘ He is mad, mad with pride, mad in his extrav- 
agance.” 

I tell you,” said Lodovico, ‘‘ it cannot be en- 
dured.” 

“And they tell me that he has said my tongue 
must be silenced,” added Checco. “ The other day 
he was talking to Guiseppe Albicina, and he said, 
‘ Let Checco beware ; he may go too far, and find 
the hand of the master not so gentle as the hand 
of the friend ! ’ ” 

“ I, too, have heard him say things which sounded 
like threats,” said Alessandro. 

“We have all heard it,” added Lodovico. “When 
his temper overcomes him, he cares not what he 
says, and one discovers then what he and his silent 
wife have been plotting between them.” 

“ Now, sir,” interrupted Checco, speaking to me, 
“you see how things stand : we are on thin ground, 
and the fire is raging beneath us. You must promise 
not to seek further quarrel with this countryman of 
yours, this Ercble Piacentini. He is one of Giro- 
lamo’s chiefest favourites, and he would not bear to 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


43 


see him touched ; if you happened to kill him, the 
count would take the opportunity to have us all 
arrested, and we should suffer the fate of the Pazzi 
at Florence. Will you promise '' 

‘‘I promise,” I answered, smiling, ‘‘to defer my 
satisfaction to a fitter opportunity.” 

“Now, gentlemen,” said Checco, “we can sepa- 
rate.” 

We bade one another good night ; Alessandro, 
as he was going, said to Matteo, “You must bring 
your friend to my sister to-morrow ; she will be 
glad to see you both.” 

We said we should be enchanted, and Alessandro 
and Lodovico Pansecchi left us. 

Matteo looked at Checco, meditatively. 

“Cousin,” he said, “all this looks very like con- 
spiracy.” 

Checco started. 

“ I cannot help it, if the people are dissatisfied 
with Girolamo.” 

“But you .^ ” pursued Matteo. “I imagine you 
do not greatly care whether the people are taxed 
or no. You knew the taxes would have to come 
on again sooner or later.” 

“ Has he not insulted me by sending a sheriff to 
demand his dues } ” 

“Is there nothing further than that.?” asked 
Matteo, looking at his cousin steadily. 


44 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Checco lifted his eyes, and gazed back into 
Matteo's. 

“Yes,” he said, at last; “eight years ago I was 
Girolamo’s equal, now I am his servant. I was his 
friend, he loved me like a brother, — and then his 
wife came, the daughter of Francesco Sforza, the 
bastard, — and gradually he has lifted himself up 
from me. He has been cold and reserved; he begins 
to show himself master; and now I am nothing 
more than a citizen among citizens, — the first, but 
not the equal of the master.” 

Checco kept silence for a moment, and in his 
quietness I could see the violence of his emo- 
tion. 

“This concerns you as well as me, Matteo. You 
are an Orsi, and the Orsi are not made to be servants. 
I will be no man’s servant. When I think of this 
man — this bastard of a pope — treating me as be- 
neath him, by God ! I cannot breathe. I could roll 
on the floor, and tear my hair with rage. Do you 
know that the Orsi have been great and rich for 
three hundred years } The Medici pale before them, 
for they are burghers, and we have been always 
noble. We expelled the Ordelaffi because they 
wished to give us a bastard boy to rule over us, 
and shall we accept this Riario } I swear I will 
not endure it.” 


“ Well said ! ” said Matteo. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


45 


Girolamo shall go as the Ordelaffi went. By 
God ! I swear it.’’ 

I looked at Matteo, and I saw that suddenly a pas- 
sion had caught hold of him ; his face was red, his 
eyes staring wide, and his voice was hoarse and 
thick. 

‘‘ But do not mistake again, Checco,” he said ; we 
want no foreign rulers. The Orsi must be the only 
Lords of Forli.” 

Checco and Matteo stood looking at one another ; 
then the former, shaking himself as if to regain his 
calmness, turned his back on us and left the room. 
Matteo strode up and down for awhile in thought, 
and then, turning to me, said, ‘^Come.” 

We went out, and returned to our hostelry. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Next day we went to Donna Giulia’s. 

Who is she ? ” I asked Matteo, as we walked 
along. 

A widow ! ” he answered, shortly. 

‘‘ Further ” I asked. 

“The scandal of Forli ! ” 

“ Most interesting ; but how has she gained her 
reputation ? ” 

“ How do I know ? ” he answered, laughing ; “ how 
do women usually gain their reputations ? She drove 
Giovanni dalP Aste into his grave ; her rivals say she 
poisoned him, — but that is a cheerful libel, probably 
due to Claudia Piacentini.” 

“ How long has she been a widow ? ” 

“ Five or six years.” 

“ And how has she lived since then ? ” 

Matteo shrugged his shoulders. 

“As widows usually live!” he answered. “For 
my part, I really cannot see what inducement a 
woman in that position has to be virtuous. After 
46 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


47 


all, one is only young once, and had better make the 
best use of one’s youth while it lasts.” 

‘‘ But has she no relations } ” 

Certainly ; she has a father and two brothers. 
But they hear nothing or care nothing. Besides, it 
may be only scandal after all.” 

“You talked as if it were a fact,” I said. 

“ Oh, no ; I only say that if it is not a fact she is 
a very foolish woman. Now that she has a bad rep- 
utation, it would be idiotic not to live up to it.” 

“You speak with some feeling,” I remarked, 
laughing. 

“Ah,” answered Matteo, with another shrug of 
the shoulders, “ I laid siege to the fort of her virtue, 
— and she sallied and retired, and mined and coun- 
termined, advanced and drew back, so that I grew 
weary and abandoned the attack. Life is not long 
enough to spend six months in politeness and flat- 
tery, and then not be sure of the reward at the 
end.” 

“ You have a practical way of looking at things.” 

“With me, you know, one woman is very like 
another. It comes to the same in the end ; and after 
one has kicked about the world for a few years, one 
arrives at the conclusion that it does not much matter 
if they be dark or fair, fat or thin. . . .” 

“ Did you tell all this to Donna Giulia } ” I asked. 

“ More or less.” 


48 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


‘‘ What did she think of it ? 

“ She was cross for awhile. She wished she had 
yielded sooner, when it was too late ; it served her 
right ! ” 

We had arrived at the house, and were ushered in. 
Donna Giulia greeted us very politely, gave me a 
glance, and began talking again to her friends. One 
could see that the men around her were more or less 
in love, for they followed every motion with their 
eyes, disputing her smiles, which she scattered in 
profusion, now upon one, now upon another. ... I 
saw she delighted in flattery, for the maker of any 
neat compliment was always rewarded with a softer 
look and a more charming smile. 

Matteo surpassed the others in the outrageousness 
of his flattery ; I thought she must see that he was 
laughing at her, but she accepted everything he said 
quite seriously, and was evidently much pleased. 

“Are you not glad to be back in Forli she said 
to him. 

“We all delight to tread the ground you walk 
on.’' 

“You have grown very polite during your ab- 
sence.” 

“ What other result could have been, when I 
spent my time thinking of the lovely Giulia } ” 

“ I am afraid you had other thoughts in Naples : 
they say that there the women are all beautiful.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


49 


Naples ! My dear lady, I swear that during all 
the time I have been away I have never seen a face 
to compare with yours/' 

Her eyes quite shone with pleasure. I turned 
away, finding the conversation silly. I thought I 
would do without the pleasant looks of Madonna 
Giulia, and I decided not to come to her again. 
Meanwhile, I began talking to one of the other 
ladies in the room, and passed the time agreeably 
enough. ... In a little while Giulia passed me, 
leaning on the arm of one of her admirers. I saw 
her glance at me, but I took no notice. Immedi- 
ately afterwards she came again, hesitating a mo- 
ment, as if she wished to say something, but passed 
on without speaking. I thought she was piqued at 
my inattention to her, and, with a smile, redoubled 
my attentions to the lady with whom I was talking. 

‘‘ Messer Filippo ! " Donna Giulia called me, “ if 
you are not too engaged, will you speak to me for 
one moment ? ” 

I approached her, smiling^ 

‘‘ I am anxious to hear of your quarrel with Ercole 
Piacentini. I have heard quite ten different stories." 

I am surprised that the insolence of an ill-bred 
fellow should rouse such interest." 

‘‘ We must talk of something in Forli. The only 
thing I hear for certain is that he insulted you, and 
you were prevented from getting satisfaction." 


50 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

“That will come later.'' 

She lowered her voice and took my arm. 

“But my brother tells me that Checco d'Orsi has 
made you promise to do nothing." 

“ I shall get my revenge, — having to wait for it 
will only make it sweeter." 

Then supposing she had nothing further to say to 
me, I stood still, as if expecting her to leave me. 
She looked up suddenly. 

“ Am I incommoding you ? " she said. 

“ How could you ! " I replied, gallantly. 

“ I thought you wanted to get rid of me." 

“ How can such an idea have entered your head ? 
Do you not see that all men lie humble at your feet, 
attentive to every word and gesture ? " 

“ Yes," she answered, “ but not you ! " 

Of course I protested. 

“ Oh," she said, “ I saw very well that you avoided 
me. When you came in here, you hardly came 
near me." 

“I did not think you would notice my inatten- 
tion." 

“ Certainly I noticed it ; I was afraid I had 
offended you. I could not think how." 

“ My dear lady, you have certainly done nothing 
to offend me." 

“Then why do you avoid me.^" she asked, petu- 
lantly. 


THE MAKIJVG of A SAINT, 


51 


Really,” I said, I don’t. Perhaps in my mod- 
esty I thought it would be a matter of indifference 
to you whether I were at your side or not. I am 
sorry I have annoyed you.” 

I don’t like people not to like me,” she said, in a 
plaintive way. 

But why should you think I do not like you 
Indeed, without flattery, I can assure you that I 
think you one of the most beautiful women I have 
ever seen.” 

A faint blush came over her cheeks, and a smile 
broke out on her lips ; she looked up at me with a 
pretty, reproachful air. 

“Then, why don’t you let me see it more plainly.?” 

I smiled, and, looking into her eyes, was struck by 
their velvet softness. I almost thought she was as 
charming as she was beautiful. 

“ Do you really wish to know .? ” I said, in reply to 
her question. 

“ Do tell me ! ” she said, faintly pressing my arm. 

“I thought you had so many admirers that you 
could well do without me.” 

“ But you see,” she answered, charmingly, “ I 
cannot ! ” 

“ And then I have a certain dislike to losing my- 
self in a crowd. I did not wish to share your smiles 
with twenty others.” 

“ And would you for that refuse them altogether .?” 


5 ^ 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ I have always avoided the woman who is the ob- 
ject of general admiration. I think I am too proud 
to struggle for favours ; I would rather dispense with 
them.’' 

‘‘ But, then, supposing the lady wishes to favour 
you especially, you do not give her the opportunity.” 

“That is so rare,” I replied, “that it is not worth 
while breaking the rule.” 

“ But it may happen.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. She paused a mo- 
ment, and then said : 

“ You do like me, then, after all } ” 

I saw a slight trembling of the lip, perhaps the 
eyes were a little moist. I felt sorry for what I had 
done. 

“ I fear I have given you pain,” I said. 

“You have a little,” she replied. 

“ I am sorry. I thought you did not care.” 

“ I like people to love me and be pleased with me.” 

“ I do both ! ” 

“Then you must show it,” she replied, a smile 
breaking through the beginning of tears. 

I really had been brutal, and I was very sorry that 
I had caused a cloud to gather over her sunshiny 
nature. She was indeed very sweet and charming. 

“ Well, we are good friends now, aren’t we } ” she 
said. 


“ Of course.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


53 


And you’ll come and see me often ? ” 

“As often as you will allow me to,” I answered. 
She gave me her hand to kiss, and a bright, happy 
smile lit up her face. 

“ A rivederci ! ” she said. 

We went home, and Matteo found waiting for him 
a message from Checco, bidding him leave the inn 
and take up his quarters with me at the Palazzo 
Orsi. On arriving, we found Checco excitedly walk- 
ing up and down a long corridor lined with statues 
and pictures. 

“ I am glad you have come,” he said to Matteo, 
taking his hand and nodding. “You must stay here ; 
we must all keep together now, for anything may 
happen.” 

“ What do you mean } ” asked Matteo. 

“The catastrophe nearly came to-day.” 

We both looked at him with astonishment, not 
comprehending. Checco stood still abruptly. 

“ He tried to arrest me to-day, — Girolamo ! ” 
Then, speaking very quickly, as if labouring under 
great excitement, “ I had to go to the Palace on 
business. I found him in the audience-chamber, and 
we began to talk certain matters over, and I grew 
rather heated. Suddenly I noticed that the place 
had emptied itself. I stopped in the midst of my 
sentence and looked up at Girolamo. I saw he was 
not attending to me ; his eyes were fixed on the door.” 


54 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


Checco was silent, and drops of perspiration were 
standing on his forehead. 

‘‘ Yes ! Yes ! ” we both said, eagerly. 

‘‘The door opened, and the master of the guard 
walked in. ‘ By God ! ’ I thought, ‘ Tm trapped ! ' 

‘ I have been waiting for you, Andrea,’ said Giro- 
lamo. Then he turned to me, and said, ‘ Come into 
the Room of the Nymphs, Checco. I have some 
papers there to show you.’ He took hold of my 
arm. I loosed myself. ‘ I pray you, excuse me,’ I 
said, ‘ I have some very urgent business.’ I walked 
to the door. Andrea glanced at his master, and I 
thought he was going to bar my way ; I think he was 
waiting for some sign, but before it came I had seen 
through the open door Paolo Bruni, and I called out, 
‘ Paolo, Paolo, wait for me. I want to talk to you 
urgently.’ Then I knew I was safe; he dared not 
touch me ; and I turned around and said again, ‘ I 
pray you, excuse me ; my business with Paolo is a 
matter of life or death.’ I brushed past Andrea and 
got out. By heaven ! how I breathed when I found 
myself in the piazza ! ” 

“ But are you sure he meant to arrest you ” said 
Matteo. 

“ Certain ; what else } ” 

“ Andrea might have come in by accident. There 
may have been nothing in it at all.” 

“ I was not deceived,” answered Checco, earnestly. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


55 


“ Their looks betrayed them, — Andrea’s questioning 
glance. I know he wants to kill me.” 

‘‘ But would he dare seize you in cold blood ? ” 

“He cares for nothing, when he has an object in 
view. Besides, when he had me in his power, what 
could have been done? I know Girolamo too well. 
There would have been a mock trial, and I should 
have been condemned. Or else he would have me 
strangled in my cell. And when I had gone you would 
have been helpless, — my father is too old, and there 
would have been no leader to the party but you, — 
and what could you do alone ? ” 

We all remained silent for awhile, then Checco 
broke out : 

“ I know he wants to rid himself of me. He has 
threatened before, but has never gone so far as this.” 

“I agree with you,” said Matteo ; “things are 
becoming grave.” 

“ It is not so much for myself I care ; but what 
would happen to my children ? My father is safe, — 
he is so old and helpless that they would never think 
of touching him, — but my boys ? Caterina would 
throw them into prison without a scruple.” 

“Well,” said Matteo, “what will you do ? ” 

“What can I do?” he answered. “I have been 
racking my brains, and I see no way of safety. I 
can wear a coat of mail to preserve me from the 
stray knife of an assassin, but that will not help me 


56 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


against a troop of soldiers. I can leave Forli, but 
that is to abandon everything.” 

‘‘No, you must not leave Forli, — anything but 
that ! ” 

“ What can I do } What can I do ? ” He stamped 
his foot on the ground, as if almost in desperation. 

“ One thing,” said Matteo, “you must not go about 
alone, — always with at least two friends.” 

“Yes, I have thought of that. But how will it all 
turn out ; it cannot last. What can I do ? ” 

He turned to me. 

“ What do you think ? ” he said. “ He means to 
kill me.” 

“ Why not anticipate him ? ” I answered, quietly. 

They both started up with a cry. 

“Kill him!” 

“ Assassination I I dare not, I dare not ! ” said 
Checco, very excitedly. “ I will do all I can by fair 
means, but assassination — ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“ It seems a matter of self-preservation,” I said. 

“ No, no ; I won't speak of it ! I won't think of 
it ! ” He began again to walk excitedly up and down 
the room. “ I won't think of it, I tell you. I could 
not.” 

Neither Matteo nor I spoke. 

“Why don't you speak he said to Matteo, im- 
patiently. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


57 


‘‘ I am thinking/' he answered. 

Not of that ; I forbid you to think of that. I 
will not have it." Then, after a pause, abruptly, as 
if he were angry with us and with himself, Leave 


CHAPTER V. 


A FEW days later, Matteo came to me, as I was 
dressing, having rescued my clothes from him. 

‘‘ I wonder you’re not ashamed to go out in those 
garments,” he remarked ; people will say that you 
wear my old things.” 

I took no notice of the insult. 

“ Where are you going ? ” he asked. 

“To Madonna Giulia.” 

“ But you went there yesterday ! ” 

“That is no reason why I should not go to-day. 
She asked me to come.” 

“That’s very obliging of her. I’m sure.” Then, 
after a pause, during which I continued my toilet, “ I 
have been gathering the news of Forli.” 

“Oh!” 

“ Madonna Giula has been affording a great deal of 
interest. ...” 

“You have been talking to the lady whom you 
call the beautiful Claudia,” I said. 

“ By the way, why have you not been to her ? ” 

“I really don’t know,” I said. “ Why should I 
S8 


^HE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


59 


V"ou told me you had progressed a long way in 
her favours during the half-hour’s talk you had with 
her the other night; have you not followed up the 
advantage ? ” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“I don’t think I like a woman to make all the 
advances.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” said Matteo. I do ! ” 

Besides, I don’t care for the type ; she is too 
massive.” 

‘‘ She feels very much hurt at your neglect. She 
says you have fallen in love with Giulia.” 

“That is absurd,” I replied; “and as to her being 
hurt at my neglect, I am very sorry, but I don’t feel 
any obligation to throw myself into the arms of every 
woman who chooses to open them.” 

“ I quite agree with you ; neither she nor Giulia 
are a bit better than they should be. I’m told 
Giulia’s latest lover is Amtrogio della Treccia. It 
seems one day he was almost caught by old Bartolo- 
meo, and had to slip out of the window and perform 
feats worthy of a professional acrobat to get out of 
the way.” 

“ I don’t think I attach belief to all the scandal 
circulating on the subject of that lady.” 

“You’re not in love with her.^” asked Matteo, 
quickly. 

I laughed. 


6o 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Certainly not. But still — ” 

‘^That's all right; because, of course, you know 
it’s notorious that she has had the most disgraceful 
amours. And she hasn’t even kept them to her own 
class ; all sorts of people have enjoyed her favours.” 

‘‘She does not look very much like a Messalina,” 
I said, sneering a little. 

“Honestly, Filippo, I do think she is really very 
little better than a harlot.” 

“You are extremely charitable,” I said. “But 
don’t you think you are somewhat prejudiced by the 
fact that you yourself did not find her one ? Besides, 
her character makes no particular difference to me ; 
I really care nothing if she’s good or bad ; she is 
agreeable, and that is all I care about. She is not 
going to be my wife.” 

“ She may make you very unhappy ; you won’t be 
the first.” 

“What a fool you are!” I said, a little angrily. 
“You seem to think that because I go and see a 
woman I must be dying of love for her. You are 
absurd.” 

I left him, and soon found myself at the Palazzo 
Aste, where Donna Giulia was waiting for me. I 
had been to see her nearly every day since my arrival 
in Forli, for I really liked her. Naturally, I was not 
in love with her, as Matteo suggested, and I had no 
intention of entering into that miserable state. I had 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 6 1 

found her charmingly simple, very different from the 
monster of dissipation she was supposed to be. She 
must have been three or four and twenty, but in all 
her ways she was quite girlish, merry, and thought- 
less, full of laughter at one moment, and then some 
trifling thing would happen to discompose her and 
she would be brought to the verge of tears ; but a 
word or caress, even a compliment, would make her 
forget the unhappiness which had appeared so terri- 
ble, and in an instant she would be full of smiles. 
She seemed so delightfully fragile, so delicate, so 
weak, that one felt it necessary to be very gentle 
with her. I could not imagine how any one could 
use a hard word to her face. 

Her eyes lit up as she saw me. 

‘‘ How long you’ve been,” she said. “ I thought 
you were never coming.” 

She always seemed so glad to see you that you 
thought she must have been anxiously awaiting 
you, and that you were the very person of all others 
that she wished to have with her. Of course, I knew 
it was an affectation, but it was a very charming one. 

Come and sit by me here,” she said, making room 
for me on a couch ; then, when I had sat down, she 
nestled close up to me in her pretty childish way, as 
if seeking protection. “ Now, tell me all you’ve been 
doing.” 

I’ve been talking to Matteo,” I said. 


62 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ What about ? ” 

You.’^ 

‘‘ Tell me what he said/’ 

“ Nothing to your credit, my dear,” I said, laughing* 

‘‘Poor Matteo ! ” she answered. “He’s such a 
clumsy, lumbering creature, one can see he’s spent 
half his life in camps.” 

“ And I I have spent the same life as Matteo. 
Am I a clumsy, lumbering creature } ” 

“ Oh, no,” she answered, “ you are quite differ- 
ent.” She put the pleasantest compliments in the 
look of her eyes. 

“ Matteo told me all sorts of scandal about you.” 

She blushed a little. 

“ Did you believe it ” 

“ I said I did not much care if it were true or not.” 

“ But do you believe it ” she asked, insisting. 

“ If you’ll tell me it is not true, I will believe abso- 
lutely what you say.” 

The little anxious look on her face gave way to a 
bright smile. 

“ Of course, it is not true.” 

“ How beautiful you are when you smile,” I re- 
marked, irrelevantly. “You should always smile.” 

“ I always do on you,” she answered. She opened 
her mouth, as if about to speak, held back, as if un- 
able to make up her mind, then said, “ Did Matteo 
tell you he made love to me once, and was very 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 63 

angry because I would not pick up the handkerchief 
which he had condescended to throw/' 

‘‘ He mentioned it." 

<< Since then I am afraid he has not had very much 
good to say of me." 

I had thought at the time that Matteo was a little 
bitter in his account of Donna Giulia, and I felt 
more inclined to believe her version of the story 
than his. 

He has been beseeching me not to fall in love 
with you," I said. 

She laughed. 

Claudia Piacentini has been telling every one that 
it is too late, and she is horridly jealous." 

Has she ? Matteo also seemed certain I was 
in love with you." 

“ And are you ? " she asked, suddenly. 

‘‘ No ! " I replied, with great promptness. 

Briitta bestial'' she said, throwing herself to 
the end of the couch, and beginning to pout. 

I am very sorry," I said, laughing, ‘‘ but I cannot 
help it." 

I think it is horrid of you," she remarked. 

‘‘You have so many adorers," I said, in expostula- 
tion. 

“Yes, but I want more," she smiled. 

“ But what good can it do you to have all these 
people in love with you 1 " 


64 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ I don’t know,” she said ; is a pleasant sensa- 
tion.” 

‘‘ What a child you are ! ” I answered, laughing. 

She bent forward seriously. 

“ But are you not at all in love with me .? ” 

I shook my head. She came close up to me, so 
that her hair brushed lightly against my cheek ; it 
sent a shiver through me. I looked at her tiny ear ; 
it was beautifully shaped, transparent as a pink shell. 
Unconsciously, quite without intention, I kissed it. 
She pretended to take no notice, and I was full of 
confusion. I felt myself blushing furiously. 

‘‘ Are you quite sure } ” she said, gravely. 

I got up to go, foolishly, rather angry with myself. 

“ When shall I see you again ” I asked. 

‘‘ I am going to confession to-morrow. Be at San 
Stefano at ten, and we can have a little talk in the | 
church when I have finished.” 1 


CHAPTER VI. 


There had been a great commotion in Forli dur- 
ing the last two days ; for it had become known that 
the country people of the count’s domain had sent 
a petition for the removal of certain taxes which 
pressed so heavily upon them that the land was 
speedily going to ruin. The proprietors were dis- 
missing their labourers, the houses of the peasants 
were falling into decay, and in certain districts the 
poverty had reached such a height that the farmers 
had not even grain wherewith to sow their fields, and 
all around the ground was lying bare and desolate. 
A famine had been the result, and if the previous 
year the countrymen had found it difficult to pay 
their taxes, this year they found it impossible. Giro- 
lamo had listened to their arguments, and knew them 
to be true. After considering with his councillors, 
he had resolved to remit certain of the more oppres- 
sive taxes ; but in doing this he was confronted with 
the fact that his Treasury was already empty, and 
that, if the income were further diminished, it would 

65 


66 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


be impossible for him to meet the demands of the 
coming year. 

It was clear that the country could not pay, and it 
was clear that the money must be procured. He set 
his eyes on the town, and saw that it was rich and 
flourishing, but he dared not, on his own initiative, 
propose any increase in its burdens. He called a 
council, showed the state of his affairs, and asked the 
elders for advice. No one stirred or spoke. At last, 
Antonio Lassi, a creature of the count, whom he had 
raised to the council from a humble position, rose to 
his feet and gave utterance to the plan which his 
master had suggested to him. The pith of it was to 
abrogate the taxes on the country people, and in 
compensation place others on certain food-stuffs and 
wines, which had previously gone free. Girolamo 
answered in a studied speech, pretending great un- 
willingness to charge what were the necessaries of 
life, and asked several of the more prominent mem- 
bers what they thought of the suggestion. They had 
met Antonio Lassi’s speech with silence, and now 
applauded Girolamo's answer ; they agreed with him 
that such taxes should not be. Then the count 
changed his tone. He said it was the only means of 
raising the money, and, gathering anger from their 
sullen looks and their silence, he told them that if 
they would not give their sanction to the decree, he 
would do without their sanction. Then, breaking 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


67 


short, he asked them for their answer. The coun- 
cillors looked at one another, rather pale, but deter- 
mined ; and the reply came from one after the other, 
quietly : 

‘^No — no — no ! 

Antonio Lassi was cowed, and dared not give his 
answer at all. The count, with an oath, beat his fist 
on the table, and said, I am determined to be lord 
and master here ; and you shall learn, all of you, that 
my will is law.’’ 

With that he dismissed them. 

When the people heard the news, there was great 
excitement. The murmurs against the count, which 
had hitherto been cautiously expressed, were now 
cried out in the market-place ; the extravagance of 
the countess was bitterly complained of, and the 
townsmen gathered together in groups, talking heat- 
edly of the proposed exaction, occasionally breaking 
out into open menace. It was very like sedition. 

On the day after the council, the head of the cus- 
toms had been almost torn to pieces by the people as 
he was walking towards the Palace, and on his way 
back he was protected by a troop of soldiers. Antonio 
Lassi was met everywhere with hoots and cries, and 
Checco d’Orsi, meeting him in the loggia of the 
piazza, had assailed him with taunts and bitter sar- 
casms. Ercole Piacentini interposed, and the quarrel 
nearly ended in a brawl ; but Checco, with difficulty 


68 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


restraining himself, withdrew before anything hap- 
pened. . . . 

On leaving Donna Giulia, I walked to the piazza 
and found the same restlessness as on the preceding 
days. Through all these people a strange commotion 
seemed to pass, a tremor like the waves of the sea ; 
everywhere little knots of people were listening ea- 
gerly to some excited speaker ; no one seemed able 
to work ; the tradesmen were gathered at their doors, 
talking with one another ; idlers were wandering to 
and fro, now joining themselves to one group, now 
to another. 

Suddenly there was a silence ; part of the crowd 
began looking eagerly in one direction, and the rest 
in their curiosity surged to the end of the piazza to 
see what was happening. Then it was seen that 
Caterina was approaching. She entered the place, 
and all eyes were fixed upon her. As usual, she was 
magnificently attired ; her neck and hands and arms, 
her waistband and headgear, shone with jewels ; she 
was accompanied by several of her ladies, and two or 
three soldiers as guard. The crowd separated to let 
her pass, and she walked proudly between the serried 
rows of people, her head uplifted and her eyes fixed 
straight in front, as if she were unaware that any one 
was looking at her. A few obsequiously took off their 
hats, but most gave no greeting ; all around her was 
silence, a few murmurs, an oath or two muttered 


THE MAKING OP A SAINT. 69 

under breath, but that was all. She walked steadily 
on, and entered the Palace gates. At once a thou- 
sand voices burst forth, and, after the deadly stillness, 
the air seemed filled with confused sounds. Curses 
and imprecations were hurled on her from every side ; 
they railed at her pride, they called her foul names. 

. . . Six years before, when she happened to cross 
the streets, the people had hurried forward to look at 
her, with joy in their hearts and blessings on their 
lips. They vowed they would die for her ; they were 
in ecstacies at her graciousness. 

I went home thinking of all these things and of 
Donna Giulia. I was rather amused at my uninten- 
tional kiss; I wondered if she were thinking of me. 
. . . She really was a charming creature, and I was 
glad at the idea of seeing her again on the morrow. 
I liked her simple, fervent piety. She was in the 
habit of going regularly to mass, and, happening to 
see her one day, I was struck with her devout air, 
full of faith ; she also went to confessional frequently. 
It was rather absurd to think she was the perverse 
being people pretended. . . . 

When I reached the Palazzo Orsi I found the 
same excitement as outside in the piazza. Girolamo 
had heard of the dispute in the loggia, and had sent 
for Checco, to hear his views on the subject of the 
tax. The audience was fixed for the following morn- 
ing at eleven, and as Checco never went anywhere 


70 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

without attendants, Scipione Moratini, Giulia’s sec- 
ond brother, and I were appointed to accompany 
him. Matteo was not to go, for fear of the presence 
of the two most prominent members of the family 
tempting the* count to some sudden action. 

The following morning I arrived at San Stefano 
at half past nine, and to my surprise found Giulia 
waiting for me. 

‘‘ I did not think you would be out of the confes- 
sional so soon,” I said. ‘‘ Were your sins so small 
this week ? ” 

‘‘ I haven’t been,” she answered. “ Scipione told 
me that you and he were to accompany Checco to 
the Palace, and I thought you would have to leave 
here early, so I postponed the confessional.” 

You have preferred earth and me to heaven and 
the worthy father ? ” 

“You know I would do more for you than that,” 
she answered. 

“ You witch ! ” 

She took my arm. 

“Come,” she said, “come and sit in one of the 
transept chapels ; it is quiet and dark there.” 

It was deliciously cool. The light came dimly 
through the coloured glass, clothing the marble of 
the chapel in mysterious reds and purples, and the 
air was faintly scented with incense. Sitting there, 
she seemed to gain a new charm. Before, I had 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


71 


never really appreciated the extreme beauty of the 
brown hair tinged with red, its wonderful quality and 
luxuriance. I tried to think of something to say, 
but could not. I sat and looked at her, and the per- 
fumes of her body blended with the incense. 

‘‘ Why don’t you speak ? ” she said. 

“ I’m sorry ; I have nothing to say.” 

She laughed. 

“Tell me of what you are thinking.” 

“ I daren’t,” I said. 

She looked at me, repeating the wish with her eyes. 

“ I was thinking you were very beautiful.” 

She turned to me and leant forward so that her 
face was close to mine ; her eyes acquired a look of 
deep, voluptuous languor. We sat without speaking, 
and my head began to whirl. 

The clock struck ten. 

“ I must go,” I said, breaking the silence. 

“Yes,” she answered, “but come to-night and tell 
me what has happened.” 

I promised I would, then asked whether I should 
lead her to another part of the church. 

“No, leave me here,” she said. “It is so good 
and quiet. I will stay and think.” 

“ Of what ? ” I said. 

She did not speak, but she smiled so that I under- 
stood her answer. 


CHAPTER VII. 


I HURRIED back to the Palazzo and found Scipione 
Moratini already arrived. I liked him for his sister's 
sake, but in himself he was a pleasant person. 

Both he and his brother had something of Giulia 
in them, — the delicate features, the fascination, and 
the winning ways, which in them seemed almost ef- 
feminate. Their mother had been a very beautiful 
woman, — report said somewhat gay, — and it was 
from her the sons had got the gallantry which made 
them the terror of husbands in Forli, and Giulia the 
coquetry which had given rise to so much scandal. 
The father, Bartolomeo, was quite different.. He 
was a rugged, upright man of sixty, very grave and 
very dignified, the only resemblance of feature to 
his children being the charming smile, which the 
sons possessed as well as Giulia, though in him it 
was rarely seen. What I liked most in him was the 
blind love for his daughter, leading him to unbend 
and become a youth to flatter her folly. He was 
really devoted to her, so that it was quite pathetic 
to see the look of intense affection in his eyes as he 
72 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


73 


followed her movements. He, of course, had never 
heard a word of the rumours circulating about 
Giulia ; he had the utmost faith in her virtue, and I, 
it seems to me, had gained faith from him. 

After talking awhile with Scipione, Checco came, 
and we started for the Palazzo. The people in Forli 
know everything, and were well aware of Checco' s 
mission. As we walked along we were met by many 
kind greetings, good luck and Godspeed were wished 
us, and Checco, beaming with joy, graciously re- 
turned the salutations. 

We were ushered into the council-chamber, where 
we found the councillors and many of the more prom- 
inent citizens, and several gentlemen of the Court ; 
immediately the great folding doors were opened, 
and Girolamo entered with his wonted state, accom- 
panied by his courtiers and men-at-arms, so that the 
hall was filled with them. He took his seat on a 
throne, and graciously bowed to the left and to the 
right. His courtiers responded, but the citizens pre- 
served a severe aspect, quite unsympathetic, towards 
his condescension. 

Girolamo rose to his feet and made a short speech, 
in which he extolled Checco’s wisdom and knowl- 
edge and patriotism, saying he had heard of a con- 
troversy between him and Antonio Lassi on the 
subject of the proposed tax, and consequently had 
sent for him to hear his opinion on the subject. 


74 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


He Stopped and looked around ; his courtiers obse- 
quiously applauded. Then, at opposite ends of the 
room, doors opened, and through each filed a string 
of soldiers ; the citizens looked at one another, won- 
dering. A flourish of trumpets was heard in the 
piazza outside, and the tramp of soldiers. Girolamo 
waited ; at last he proceeded : 

‘‘ A good prince owes this to his subjects, — to do 
nothing against their will freely expressed ; and 
though I could command, for I am placed here by 
the Vicar of Christ himself, with absolute power over 
your lives and fortunes, yet such is my love and 
affection towards you that I do not disdain to ask 
your advice.’’ 

The courtiers broke out into a murmur of surprise 
and self-congratulation at his infinite graciousness ; 
the trumpets flourished again, and in the succeeding 
silence could be heard cries of command from the 
officers in the square, while from the soldiers stand- 
ing about the hall there was a clank of swords and 
spurs. 

Checco rose from his seat. He was pale, and he 
almost seemed to hesitate ; I wondered if the sol- 
diers had had the effect which Girolamo intended. 
Then he began to speak, quietly, in even, well-turned 
sentences, so that one could see the speech had been 
carefully thought out. 

He called to mind his own affection for Girolamo, 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


75 


and the mutual friendship which had solaced many 
hours of doubt and difficulty, and assured him of his 
unalterable fidelity to himself and his family ; then 
he reminded him of the love borne by the people 
towards their ruler, and their consciousness of an 
equal love on the part of the count towards them- 
selves. He drew a picture of the joy in Forli when 
first Girolamo came to it, and of the enthusiasm 
caused by the sight of him or his wife walking 
through the streets. 

There was a little applause, chiefly from the 
count's suite ; Checco paused as if he had come to 
the end of his preface, and was gathering himself up 
for the real matter of his speech. There was deadly 
silence in the hall, all eyes were fixed on him, and all 
minds were asking themselves, ‘‘ What will he say ? " 
Girolamo was leaning forward, resting his chin on his 
hand, looking anxious. I wondered if he regretted 
that he had called the meeting. 

Checco resumed his speech. 

‘‘Girolamo," he said, “the people from the coun- 
try districts lately sent you a petition, in which they 
showed their sufferings from rain, and storm, and 
famine, their poverty and misery, the oppressiveness 
of the taxes. They bade you come and look at their 
untilled fields, their houses falling to ruin, themselves 
dying by the roadside, naked and hungry, children 
expiring at their mothers' breasts, parents lying un- 


76 


THE MAKING OP A SAINT 


buried in the ruin of their home. They bade you 
come and look at the desolation of the land, and 
implored you to help them while there was yet time, 
and lighten from their backs the burdens you had 
laid upon them. 

‘'You turned an eye of pity on them; and now 
the land smiles, the people have shaken themselves 
from their sleep of death, and awakened to new life, 
and everywhere prayers are offered, and blessings 
rained on the head of the most high and magnificent 
prince, Girolamo Riario. 

“And we, too, my lord, join in the thanks and 
praise ; for these to whom you have given new life 
are our cousins and brothers, our fellow countrymen.’' 

What was coming ? The councillors looked at one 
another questioningly. Could Checco have made 
terms with the count, and was it a comedy they 
were playing ? Girolamo also was surprised ; he had 
not for long heard praise from any but his courtiers. 

“ Eight years ago, when you acquired the sov- 
ereignty of Forli, you found the town weighed down 
under the taxes which the Ordelaffi had imposed. 
Depression had seized hold of the merchants and 
tradesmen ; they were burdened so that they could 
not buy nor sell ; they had given up effort, and the 
town was lying numb and cold, as if dying from a 
pestilence. The streets were deserted ; such people 
as there were moved sadly, and with downturned 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


77 


faces. The inhabitants were becoming fewer ; there 
was no motion, no life ; a few years more and Forli 
would have become a city of the dead ! 

But you came, and with you life ; for your first 
deed was to remove the most oppressive imposts. 
As the bow, doubled up, when the string is loosened 
shoots back with a sudden impulse which propels 
the arrow to its mark, so Forli rebounded from the 
weight it had borne before. The Goddess of Plenty 
reigned in the land ; it was the sunlight after storm ; 
everywhere life and activity ! The merchant wrote 
busily at his desk, the tradesman spread his wares 
anew and laughed in the joy of his heart. The 
mason, the builder, the blacksmith, returned to their 
work, and through the city was heard the sound of 
hammering and building. The news spread of a 
beneficent lord, and the goldsmith and silversmith, 
the painter, the sculptor, came to the city in throngs. 
The money passed from hand to hand, and in its 
passage seemed to increase by magic. On the faces 
of all was happiness ; the apprentice sung as he 
worked, and mirth and joy were universal ; F'orli 
became known as the home of delight ; Italy rang 
with its feasts and celebrations, — and every citizen 
was proud to be a Forlivese. 

“ And everywhere prayers were offered, and bless- 
ings rained on the head of the most high and magnif- 
icent prince, Girolamo Riario.’' 


78 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Checco paused again. An inkling of his meaning 
was coming to his hearers, but they dared not think 
he would say what was in all their minds. 

^‘Then,” Checco went on, ‘‘you reimposed the 
taxes which you had taken off.’' 

‘‘That is a lie!” interrupted Girolamo. “They 
were imposed by the council.” 

Checco shrugged his shoulders, smiling ironi- 
cally. 

“I remember quite well. You called a meeting 
of the Ancients, and, showing them your neces- 
sities, suggested that they should reimpose the 
taxes. 

“ I forget if you reminded them that you could 
command, and that you were placed here by the 
Vicar of Christ on earth. 

“And you forbore to let us hear the ring of 
trumpets and the tramp of soldiery in the square. 
Nor did you think such a numerous suite necessary 
for your dignity.” 

He looked around at the soldiers, thoughtfully 
stroking his beard. 

“ Proceed ! ” said Girolamo, impatiently ; he was 
beginning to get angry. 

Checco, in talking, had recovered the assurance 
which at first seemed to fail him. He smiled politely, 
at the count’s command, and said : 

“ I will come to the point at once. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


79 


You replaced the taxes which you had taken 
away, and thereby undid the benefit you had done. 
The town soon felt the effect of the change ; its 
prosperity is already declining, and it is not doubtful 
that a few years more will bring it to the condition 
in which you found it. And who knows, perhaps 
its last state may be worse than its first 

‘‘ And now you propose to make the townspeople 
pay the duties which you have taken off the country- 
folk. You have sent for me to ask my advice on the 
subject, and here I give it you. 

Do not put on, but take off. In the name of the 
people, I beseech you to do away with the taxes you 
imposed four years ago, and return to the happy 
state of the first years of your rule.’' 

He paused a moment, then with outstretched arm 
pointing to the count, he added, solemnly, ‘‘ Or 
Girolamo Riario, the magnificent prince, may share 
the fate of the Ordelafii, who ruled the town for 
two centuries, and now wander homeless about the 
land.” 

There was a cry all around the room. They were 
astounded at his audacity. Girolamo had started in 
his chair, — his eyes were staring, his face red; he 
was dumb with rage. He tried to speak, but the 
words died in his throat, and nothing was heard but 
an inarticulate murmur. The soldiers and courtiers 
were looking at one another in surprise ; they did 


8o 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


not know what to do or think ; they looked at their 
master, but found no help in him. The citizens 
were bewildered, and by turns felt wonder, dismay, 
fear, pleasure ; they could not understand. . . . 

O Girolamo ! ” said Checco, unmindful of the 
excitement around him, “ I do not say these things in 
enmity to you. Come among your people yourself, 
and see their wants with your own eyes. Do not 
believe what your courtiers tell you, — do not think 
the land in your charge is a captured town which 
you can spoil at your pleasure. You have been 
placed here as a guardian in our perils and an assist- 
ance in our necessities. 

‘‘You are a stranger here; you do not know this 
people as I know it. They will be faithful, meek, 
obedient, — but do not rob them of the money they 
have hardly earned, or they will turn against you. 
Forli has never supported an oppressor, and if you 
oppress them, beware of their wrath. What do 
you think of these soldiers of yours against the wrath 
of a people ! And are you so sure of your soldiers ? 
Will they take part for you against their fathers and 
brothers, their children ? 

“ Be quiet ! ” Girolamo had risen from his seat, 
and was standing with his arm threateningly upraised. 
He shouted so as to drown Checco. “ Be quiet ! 
You have always been against me, Checco,’' he 
cried. “You have hated me because I have over- 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


8l 


whelmed you with bounty. There has never been 
trouble between me and my people but you have 
come to make them more bitter against me.” 

‘^You lie!” said Checco, passionately. 

<< Oh, I know you, Checco, and your pride ! As 
Satan fell by pride, so may you, notwithstanding all 
your riches and power. You thought you were my 
equal, and because you found me your master you 
gnashed your teeth and cursed me.” 

‘‘ By God, you would kill me if you could ! ” 

Checco lost his calm, and, gesticulating wildly, 
shouted back at Girolamo : 

have hated you because you are a tyrant to 
this town. Are these not my fellow citizens, my 
brothers, my friends } Have we not been together 
since childhood, and our fathers and grandfathers 
before us } And do you think I look upon them as 
you who are a stranger } 

‘‘ No ; so long as you obtained money from the 
rich, I said nothing. You know what sums I have 
myself lent you ; all that I freely give you. I do not 
want a penny of it back, — keep it all. But when 
you have extorted the uttermost from us, and you 
turn to the poor and needy, and rob them of their 
little, then I will not keep silence. You shall not 
impose these taxes on the people 1 And why is it 
you want them } For your riotous, insane extrava- 
gance; so that you may build yourself new palaces. 


82 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


and deck yourself in gorgeous robes, and buy dia- 
monds and precious stones for your wife/' 

“ Do not speak of my wife," interrupted the count. 

So that you may pile gold in the hands of the 
parasite who makes a sonnet in your praise. You 
came to us and begged for money ; we gave it, and 
you flung it away in feasts and riotry. The very 
coat you wear was made out of our riches. But you 
have no right to take the money of the people for 
these ignoble uses. You are not their master; you 
are their servant ; their money is not yours, but 
yours is theirs. Your duty before God is to protect 
them, and, instead, you rob them." 

‘‘ Be silent ! " broke in Girolamo. I will hear no 
more. You have outraged me as no man has ever 
done without repenting it. You think you are all- 
powerful, Checco, but by God you shall find that I 
am more powerful ! 

“Now go, all of you ! I have had enough of this 
scene. Go ! " 

• He waved his hand imperiously. Then, with a 
look of intense rage, he descended from his throne 
and, scowling, flung himself out of the room. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The courtiers followed on their master’s heels, 
but the soldiers stood undecided. Ercole Piacentini 
looked at us, and spoke in an undertone to the cap- 
tain of the guard. I thought they were discussing 
the possibility of boldly arresting Checco on the spot, 
which they doubtless knew would be a step very ac- 
ceptable to Girolamo ; but he was surrounded by his 
friends, and evidently, whatever Ercole and the cap- 
tain wished, they dared nothing, for the former 
quietly left the chamber, and the soldiers, on a whis- 
pered order, slid silently from the room, like whipped 
dogs. 

Then the excitement of our friends knew no 
bounds. I, at the end of the speech, had seized 
his hand, and said : 

‘‘Well done.” 

Now he was standing in the midst of all these 
people, happy and smiling, proud of the enthusiasm 
he had aroused, breathing heavily, so that a casual 
observer might have thought him drunk with wine. 

“ My friends,” he said, in answer to their praises, 
83 


84 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


and his voice slightly trembled, so that his sincerity 
was conspicuous, ‘‘ whatever happens, be sure that 
I will continue to uphold your rights, and that I will 
willingly give my life for the cause of justice and 
freedom.” 

He was choked by the violence of his emotion, and 
could say nothing more. 

The cries of approbation were renewed, and then, 
with an impulse to get into the open air, they surged 
out of the council-chamber into the piazza. It was 
not exactly known what had passed in the Palace, 
but the people knew that Checco had braved the 
count, and that the latter had broken up the meet- 
ing in anger. Wonderful rumours were going about : 
it was said that swords had been drawn, and there 
had almost been a battle; others said that the count 
had tried to arrest Checco, and this story, gaining 
credence, — some even saying that Checco was being 
kept a prisoner, — had worked the citizens to fever 
height. 

When Checco appeared, there was a great shout, 
and a rush towards him. “ Bravo ! ” ‘‘ Well done ! ” 

I don’t know what they did not find to say in praise 
of him. Their enthusiasm grew by its own fire ; 
they went mad ; they could not contain themselves, 
and they looked about for something on which to 
vent their feeling. A word, and they would have 
attacked the Palace or sacked the custom - house. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 85 

They surrounded us, and would not let us pass. 
Bartolomeo Moratini pushed his way to Checco and 
said : 

‘‘Quiet them quickly, before it is too late.” 

Checco understood at once. “ Friends,” he said, 
“ let me pass quietly, for the love of God, and do you 
return to your work in peace. Let me pass ! ” 

Moving forward, the crowd opened to him, and 
still shouting, yelling, and gesticulating, allowed him 
to go through. When we arrived at the gate of his 
palace, he turned to me and said : 

“ By God, Filippo, this is life ! I shall never for- 
get this day ! ” 

The crowd had followed to the door, and would 
not go away. Checco had to appear on the balcony 
and bow his thanks. As he stood there, I co'ald see 
that his head was whirling. He was pale, almost 
senseless, with his great joy. 

At last the people were persuaded to depart, and 
we entered the house. 

We were in Checco’s private room. Besides the 
cousins and myself were present Bartolomeo Mora- 
tini and his two sons, Fabio Oliva and Cesare 
Gnocchi, both related on the mother’s side to the 
Orsi. We were all restless and excited, discussing 
the events that had occurred ; only Bartolomeo was 
quiet and grave. Matteo, in the highest of spirits, 
turned to him. 


86 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ Why SO silent, Messer Bartolomeo ? '' he said. 
“You are like the skeleton at the banquet.'' 

“ It is a matter for gravity," he answered. 

“Why.?" 

“ Why ! Good God, man, do you suppose nothing 
has happened ! " 

We stopped talking and stood around him, as if 
suddenly awakened. 

“ Our ships are burnt behind us," he proceeded, 
“ and we must advance, — must! " 

“What do you mean .?" said Checco. 

“ Do you suppose Girolamo is going to allow 
things to go on as before.? You must be mad, 
Checco!" 

“I believe I am," was the answer. “All this has 
turned my head. Go on." 

“ Girolamo has only one step open to him now. 
You have braved him publicly; you have crossed 
the streets in triumph, amid the acclamation of the 
people, and they have accompanied you to your 
house with shouts of joy. Girolamo sees in you 
a rival, — and from a rival there is only one safe- 
guard." 

“ And that — .? " asked Checco. 

“ Is death ! " 

We were all silent for a moment ; then Bartolomeo 
spoke again. 

“ He cannot allow you to live. He has threatened 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 87 

you before, but now he must carry his threats into 
effect. Take care ! '' 

‘‘ I know,'' said Checco, the sword is hanging 
over my head. But he dare not arrest me." 

Perhaps he will try assassination. You must go 
out well guarded." 

‘‘I do," said Checco, ‘‘and I wear a coat of mail. 
The fear of assassination has been haunting me for 
weeks. O God, it is terrible ! I could bear an 
open foe. I have courage as much as any one ; 
but this perpetual suspense ! I swear to you it is 
making me a coward. I cannot turn the corner 
of a street without thinking that my death may 
be on the other side ; I cannot go through a dark 
corridor at night without thinking that over there 
in the darkness my murderer may be waiting for 
me. I start at the slightest sound, the banging 
of a door, a sudden step. And I awake in the 
night with a cry, sweating. I cannot stand it. I 
shall go mad if it continues. What can I do " 

Matteo and I looked at one another ; we had the 
same thought. Bartolomeo spoke. 

“ Anticipate him ! " 

We both started, for they were my very words. 
Checco gave a cry. 

“You, too! That thought has been with me 
night and day ! Anticipate him I Kill him ! But 
I dare not think of it. I cannot kill him." 


88 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘You must,’* said Bartolomeo. 

“Take care we are not heard,” said Oliva. 

“The doors are well fastened.” 

“You must,” repeated Bartolomeo. “It is the 
only course left you. And what is more, you must 
make haste, — for he will not delay. The lives of 
all of us are at stake. He will not be satisfied with 
you ; after you are gone, he will easily enough find 
means to get rid of us.” 

“ Hold your peace, Bartolomeo, for God’s sake ! 
It is treachery.” 

“ Of what are you frightened ? It would not be 
difficult.” 

“ No, we must have no assassination ! It always 
turns out badly. The Pazzi in Florence were killed, 
Salviati was hanged from the Palace windows, and 
Lorenzo is all-powerful, while the bones of the con- 
spirators rot in unconsecrated ground. And at Milan, 
when they killed the duke, not one of them escaped.” 

“They were fools. We do not mistake as in 
Florence ; we have the people with us, and we 
shall not bungle it as they did.” 

“No, no ; it cannot be.” 

“ I tell you it must. It is our only safety ! ” 

Checco looked around anxiously. 

“We are all safe,” said Oliva. “ Have no fear.” 

“What do you think of it.^” asked Checco. “I 
know what you think, Filippo, and Matteo.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 89 

I think with my father ! said Scipione. 

“ I, too ! '' said his brother. 

‘‘Andl!^^ 

^‘And I!’’ 

‘‘Every one of you/’ said Checco; “you would 
have me murder him.” 

“It is just and lawful.” 

“ Remember that he was my friend. I helped 
him to this power. Once we were almost brothers.” 

“But now he is your deadly enemy. He is 
sharpening a knife for your head, — and if you do 
not kill him, he will kill you.” 

“ It is treachery. I cannot ! ” 

“When a man has killed another, the law kills 
him. It is a just revenge. When a man attempts 
another’s life, the law permits him to kill that man 
in self-defence. Girolamo has killed you in thought, 
— and at this moment he may be arranging the 
details of your murder. It is just and lawful that 
you take his life to defend your own and ours.” 

“Bartolomeo is right,” said Matteo. 

A murmur of approval showed what the others 
thought. 

“ But think, Bartolomeo,” said Checco, “ you are 
gray-headed ; you are not so very far from the 
tomb; if you killed this man, what of afterwards.^” 

“ I swear to you, Checco, that you would be a 
minister of God’s vengeance. Has he not madly 


90 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


oppressed the people ? What right has he more 
than another ? Through him men and women and 
children have died of want ; unhappiness and misery 
have gone through the land, — and all the while he 
has been eating and drinking and making merry/' 
^^Make up your mind, Checco. You must give 
way to us ! " said Matteo. ‘‘ Girolamo has failed in 
every way. On the score of honesty and justice he 
must die. And to save us he must die.” 

‘‘You drive me mad,” said Checco. “All of you 
are against me. You are right in all you say, but I 
cannot, — O God, I cannot ! ” 

Bartolomeo was going to speak again, but Checco 
interrupted him. 

“ No, no, for Heaven’s sake, say nothing more. 
Leave me alone. I want to be quiet and think.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


In the evening at ten I went to the Palazzo Aste. 
The servant who let me in told me that Donna Giulia 
was at her father’s, and he did not know when she 
would be back. I was intensely disappointed. I had 
been looking forward all day to seeing her, for the 
time in church had been so short. . . . The servant 
looked at me as if expecting me to go away, and 
I hesitated ; but then I had such a desire to see her 
that I told him I would wait. 

I was shown into the room I already knew so well, 
and I sat down in Giulia’s chair. I rested my head 
on the cushions which had pressed against her beau- 
tiful hair, her cheek, and I inhaled the fragrance 
which they had left behind them. 

How long she was ! Why did she not come ? 

I thought of her sitting there. In my mind I saw 
the beautiful, soft brown eyes, the red lips ; her “ 
mouth was exquisite, very delicately shaped, with 
wonderful curves. It was for such a mouth as hers 
that the simile of Cupid’s bow had been invented. 

I heard a noise below, and I went to the door to 

91 


92 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


listen. My heart beat violently, but, alas ! it was 
not she, and, bitterly disappointed, I returned to 
the chair. I thought I had been waiting hours, 
and every hour seemed a day. Would she never 
come ? 

At last ! The door opened, and she came in, — so 
beautiful. She gave me both her hands. 

I am sorry you have had to wait,'’ she said, “ but 

k 

I could not help it.” 

‘‘ I would wait a hundred years to see you for an 
hour.” 

She sat down, and I lay at her feet. 

‘‘Tell me,” she said, “all that has happened 
to-day.” 

I did as she asked ; and as I gave my story, her 
eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. I don’t know 
what came over me ; I felt a sensation of swooning, 
and at the same time I caught for breath. And I 
had a sudden impulse to take her in my arms and 
kiss her again and again. 

“ How lovely you are ! ” I said, raising myself to 
her side. 

She did not answer, but looked at me, smiling. 
Her eyes glistened with tears, her bosom heaved. 

“ Giulia ! ” 

I put my arm around her, and took her hands in 
mine. 


“ Giulia, I love you ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


93 


She bent over to me, and put forward her face ; 
and then — then I took her in my arms, and covered 
her mouth with kisses. O God ! I was mad, I had 
never tasted such happiness before. Her beauti- 
ful mouth, it was so soft, so small, I gasped in the 
agony of my happiness. If I could only have died 
then ! 

Giulia ! Giulia ! 

The cock crew, and the night seemed to fade away 
into grayness. The first light of dawn broke through 
the windows, and I pressed my love to my heart in 
one last kiss. 

‘‘Not yet,'' she said ; “ I love you." 

I could not speak ; I kissed her eyes, her cheeks, 
her breasts. 

“Don't go," she said. 

“ My love ! " 

At last I tore myself away, and as I gave her the 
last kiss of all, she whispered : 

“ Come soon." 

And I replied : 

“To-night ! " 

I walked through the gray streets of Forli, won- 
dering at my happiness ; it was too great to realise. 
It seemed absurd that I, a poor, commonplace man, 
should be chosen out for this ecstasy of bliss. I had 
been buffeted about the world, an exile, wandering 


94 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


here and there in search of a captain under whom to 
serve. I had had loves before, but common, gro- 
tesque things, — not like this, pure and heavenly. 
With my other loves I had often felt a certain ugli- 
ness about them ; they had seemed sordid and 
vulgar ; but this was so pure, so clean ! She was 
so saintly and innocent. Oh, it was good ! And 
I laughed at myself for thinking I was not in love 
with her. I had loved her always ; when it began 
I did not know . . . and I did not care ; all that 
interested me now was to think of myself, loving 
and beloved. I was not worthy of her ; she was so 
good, so kind, and I a poor, mean wretch. I felt 
her a goddess, and I could have knelt down and 
worshipped her. 

I walked through the streets of Forli with swing- 
ing steps ; I breathed in the morning air, and felt so 
strong, and well, and young. Everything was beau- 
tiful, — all life. The gray walls enchanted me ; the 
sombre carvings of the churches ; the market women, 
gaily dressed, entering the town laden with baskets 
of many-coloured fruit. They gave me greeting, and 
I answered, with a laughing heart. How kind they 
were ! Indeed, my heart was so full of love that it 
welled over and covered everything and everybody, 
so that I felt a strange, hearty kindness to all around 
me. I loved mankind ! 


CHAPTER X. 


When I got home, I threw myself on my bed and 
enjoyed a delightful sleep, and when I awoke felt 
cool and fresh, and very happy. 

‘‘What is the matter with you ? asked Matteo. 

“I am rather contented with myself,’’ I said. 

“Then, if you want to make other people con- 
tented, you had better come with me to Donna 
Claudia.” 

“The beautiful Claudia.'^” 

“The same.” 

“ But can we venture in the enemy’s camp ? ” 

“ That is exactly why I want you to come. The 
idea is to take no notice of the events of yesterday, 
and that we should all go about as if nothing had 
happened.” 

“ But Messer Piacentini will not be very glad to 
see us. ” 

“ He will be grinding his teeth, and inwardly spit- 
ting fire ; but he will take us to his arms and em- 
brace us, and try to make us believe he loves us with 
the most Christian affection.” 


95 


96 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


“ Very well ; come on ! ” 

Donna Claudia, at all events, was delighted to see 
us, and she began making eyes and sighing, and 
putting her hand to her bosom in the most affecting 
manner. 

“ Why have you not been to see me, Messer 
Filippo .J*’* she asked. 

“ Indeed, madam, I was afraid of being intrusive.’' 

“Ah,” she said, with a sweeping glance, “how 
could you be ! No, there was another reason for 
your absence. Alas ! ” 

“I dared not face those lustrous eyes.” 

She turned them full on me, and then turned them 
up. Madonna-wise, showing the whites. 

“ Are they so cruel, do you think 1 ” 

“They are too brilliant. How dangerous to the 
moth is the candle ; and in this case the candle is 
twain.” 

“ But they say the moth as it flutters in the flame 
enjoys a perfection of ecstasy.” 

“ Ah, but I am a very sensible moth,” I answered, 
in a matter-of-fact tone, “ and I am afraid of burning 
my wings.” 

“ How prosaic ! ” she murmured. 

“ The muse,” I said, politely, “ loses her force 
when you are present.” 

She evidently did not quite understand what I 
meant, for there was a look of slight bewilderment 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


97 


in her eyes ; and I was not surprised, for I had not 
myself the faintest notion of my meaning. Still she 
saw it was a compliment. 

‘‘ Ah, you are very polite ! 

We parused a moment, during which we both 
looked unutterable things at one another. Then 
she gave a deep sigh. 

‘‘ Why so sad, sweet lady I asked. 

‘‘ Messer Filippo,’' she answered, I am an un- 
happy woman.” She hit her breast with her hand. 

‘‘You are too beautiful,” I remarked, gallantly. 

“ Ah, no ! ah, no ! I am unhappy.” 

I glanced at her husband, who was stalking grimly 
about the room, looking like a retired soldier with 
the gout ; and I thought that to be in the society of 
such a person was enough to make any one miserable. 

“You are right,” she said, following my eyes ; “it 
is my husband. He is so unsympathetic.” 

I condoled with her. 

“ He is so jealous of me, and, as you know, I am 
a pattern of virtue to Forli ! ” 

I had never heard her character so described, but, 
of course, I said : 

“To look at you would be enough to reassure the 
most violent of husbands.” 

“ Oh, I have temptation enough, I assure you,” 
she answered, quickly. 

“ I can well believe that.” 


98 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ But I am as faithful to him as if I were old and 
ugly ; and yet he is jealous.’^ 

‘‘We all have our crosses in this life/' I remarked, 
sententiously. 

“ Heaven knows I have mine ; but I have my 
consolations." 

So I supposed, and answered : 

“ Oh ! " 

“ I pour out my soul in a series of sonnets." 

“A second Petrarch!" 

“ My friends say some of them are not unworthy 
of that great name." 

“ I can well believe it." 

Here relief came, and, like the tired sentinel, I left 
the post of duty. I thought of my sweet Giulia, and 
wondered at her beauty and charm ; it was all so 
much clearer and cleaner than the dross I saw 
around me. I came away, for I was pining for 
solitude, and then I gave myself up to the exquisite* 
dreams of my love. 

At last the time came, the long day had at last 
worn away, and the night, the friend of lovers, gave 
me leave to go to Giulia. 


CHAPTER XI. 


I WAS SO happy. The world went on ; things 
happened in Forli, the rival parties agitated and 
met together and discussed ; there was a general 
ferment, — and to it all I was profoundly indiffer- 
ent. What matter all the petty little affairs of life ? 
I said. People work and struggle, plot, scheme, 
make money, lose it, conspire for place and honour ; 
they have their ambitions and hopes ; but what is 
it all, beside love ? I had entered into the excite- 
ment of politics in Forli ; I was behind the veil 
and knew the intricacies, the ambitions, the moving 
emotions of the actors ; but now I withdrew myself. 
What did I care about the prospects of Forli, whether 
taxes were put on or taken off, or whether A killed 
B, or B killed A, it really seemed so unimportant. 
I looked upon them as puppets performing on a 
stage, and I could not treat their acts with serious- 
ness. Giulia ! That was the great fact in life. 
Nothing mattered to me but Giulia. When I 
thought of Giulia my heart was filled with ecstasy, 
and I spat with scorn on all the silly details of events. 

99 


lOO 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I would willingly have kept myself out of the 
stream which was carrying along the others ; but 
I could not help knowing what happened. And it 
was indeed ridiculous. After the great scene at the 
Palace, people had begun to take steps as if for big 
events. Checco had sent a large sum of money to 
Florence for the Medici to take care of ; Bartolomeo 
Moratini had made preparations ; there was gener- 
ally a stir and unrest. Girolamo was supposed to 
be going to take some step ; people were prepared 
for everything ; when they woke up in the morning 
they asked if aught had taken place in the night ; 
and Checco wore a coat of mail. On the count’s 
side, people were asking what Checco meant to do ; 
whether the ovation he had received would en- 
courage him to any violent step. All the world 
was agog for great events, — and nothing happened. 
It reminded me of a mystery play in which, after 
great preparation of dialogue, some great stage 
effect is going to be produced, — a saint is going 
to ascend to heaven, or a mountain is to open and 
the devil spring out. The spectators are sitting 
open-mouthed ; the moment has come, everything 
is ready, the signal is given ; the mob have already 
drawn their breath for a cry of astonishment, — and 
something goes wrong, and nothing happens. 

The good Forlivesi could not understand it ; they 
were looking for signs and miracles, and behold ! 


T'HE MAKING OF A SAINT 


lOI 


they came not. Each day they said to themselves 
that this would be one to be remembered in the 
history of the town ; that to-day Girolamo would 
surely leave his hesitations ; but the day wore on 
quite calmly. Every one took his dinner and supper 
as usual, the sun journeyed from east to west as it 
had done on the previous day, the night came, and 
the worthy citizen went to his bed at his usual 
hour, and slept in peace till the following sunrise. 
Nothing happened, and it seemed that nothing was 
going to happen. The troubled spirits gradually 
came to the conclusion that there was nothing to 
be troubled about, and the old quiet came over the 
town ; there was no talk of new taxes, and the world 
wagged on. . . . Checco and Matteo and the Mora- 
tini resigned themselves to the fact that the sky was 
serene, and that they had better pursue their way 
without troubling their little heads about conspira- 
cies and midnight daggers. 

Meanwhile, I laughed, and admired their folly and 
my own wisdom. For I worried myself about none 
of these things ; I lived in Giulia, for Giulia, by 
Giulia. ... I had never enjoyed such happiness 
before ; she was a little cold, perhaps, but I did not 
mind. I had passion that lived by its own flame, 
and I cared for nothing as long as she let me 
love her. And I argued with ‘myself that , it is 
an obvious thing that love is not the same on 


102 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


both sides. There is always one who loves and 
one who lets himself be loved. Perhaps it is a 
special decree of nature ; for the man loves actively, 
caresses, and is passionate ; while the woman gives 
herself to him, and is in his embrace like some 
sweet, helpless animal. I did not ask for such love 
as I gave ; all I asked was that my love should let 
herself be loved. That was all I cared for ; that 
was all I wanted. My love for Giulia was wonder- 
ful even to me. I felt I had lost myself in her. 
I had given my whole being into her hand. Samson 
and Delilah ! But this was no faithless Philistine. 
I would have given my honour into her keeping, 
and felt it as sure as in my own. In my great love I 
felt such devotion, such reverence, that sometimes 
I hardly dared touch her ; it seemed to me I must 
kneel and worship at her feet. I learned the great 
delight of abasing myself to the beloved. I could 
make myself so small and mean in my humility ; but 
nothing satisfied my wish to show my abject slavery. 
. . . O Giulia ! Giulia ! 

But this inaction on the part of Girolamo Riario 
had the effect of persuading his subjects of his 
weakness. They had given over expecting reprisals 
on his part, and the only conclusion they could 
come to was thaf he dared do nothing against 
Checco. It was inconceivable that he should leave 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


103 


unavenged the insults he had received ; that he 
should bear without remark the signs of popularity 
which greeted Checco, not only on the day of the 
council meeting, but since, every time he appeared 
in the streets. They began to despise their ruler 
as well as hate him, and they told one another 
stories of violent disputes in the Palace between the 
count and Caterina. Every one knew the pride and 
passion which came to the countess with her Sforza 
blood, and they felt sure that she would not patiently 
bear the insults which her husband did not seem 
to mind ; for the fear of the people could not stop 
their sarcasms, and when any member of the house- 
hold was seen he was assailed with taunts and jeers ; 
Caterina herself had to listen to scornful laughs as 
she passed by, and the town was ringing with a song 
about the count. It was whispered that Girolamo’s 
little son, Ottaviano, had been heard singing it, in 
ignorance of its meaning, and had been nearly killed 
by his father in a passion of rage. Evil reports be- 
gan to circulate about Caterina’s virtue ; it was sup- 
posed that she would not keep faithful to such a 
husband, and another song was made in praise of 
cuckoldry. 

The Orsi would not be persuaded that this calm 
was to be believed in. Checco was assured that 
Girolamo must have some scheme on hand, and the 
quiet and silence seemed all the more ominous. 


104 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


The count very rarely appeared in Forli ; but one 
Saint's day he went to the Cathedral, and as he came 
back to the Palace, passing through the piazza, saw 
Checco. At the same moment, Checco saw him, and 
stopped, uncertain what to do. The crowd suddenly 
became silent, and they stood still, like statues petri- 
fied by a magic spell. What was going to happen } 
Girolamo himself hesitated a moment ; a curious 
spasm crossed his face. Checco made as if to walk 
on, pretending not to notice the count. Matteo and 
I were dumbfounded, absolutely at a loss. Then the 
count stepped forward, and held out his hand. 

Ah, my Checco ! how goes it " 

He smiled, and pressed warmly the hand which the 
Orsi gave him. Checco was taken aback, pale as if 
the hand he held were the hand of death. 

You have neglected me of late, dear friend," said 
the count. 

I have not been well, my lord." 

Girolamo linked his arm in Checco's. 

‘‘Come, come," he said, “you must not be angry 
because I used sharp words to you the other day. 
You know I am hot-tempered." 

“You have a right to say what you please." 

“ Oh, no ; I have only a right to say pleasant 
things." 

He smiled, but all the time the mobile eyes were 
shifting here and there, scrutinising Checco's face, 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


lOS 


giving occasional quick glances to me and Matteo. 
He went on : 

‘^You must show a forgiving spirit.” Then, to 
Matteo, We must all be good Christians if we can, 
eh, Matteo ? ” 

‘‘Of course!” 

“And yet your cousin bears malice.” 

“No, my lord,” said Checco. “I am afraid I was 
too outspoken.” 

“ Well, if you were, I have forgiven you, and you 
must forgive me. But we will not talk of that. My 
children have been asking for you. It is strange 
that this ferocious creature, who tells me I am the 
worst among bad men, should be so adored by my 
children. Your little godson is always crying for you.” 

“ Dear child ! ” said Checco. 

“ Come and see them now. There is no time like 
the present.” 

Matteo and I looked at one another. Was all 
this an attempt to get him in his hand, and this 
time not to let him go ? 

“ I must pray you to excuse me, for I have some 
gentlemen coming to dine with me to-day, and I fear 
I shall be late already.” 

Girolamo gave us a rapid look, and evidently saw 
in our eyes something of our thoughts, for he said, 
good-humouredly : 

“ You never will do anything for me, Checco. But 


I 06 THE MAKING OE A SAINT. 

I won’t keep you ; I respect the duties of hospitality. 
However, another day you must come.” 

He warmly pressed Checco’s hand, and, nodding to 
Matteo and me, left us. 

The crowd had not been able to hear what was 
said, but they had seen the cordiality, and, as soon as 
Girolamo disappeared behind the Palace doors, broke 
out into murmurs of derision. The Christian senti- 
ment clearly gained little belief from them, and they 
put down the count’s act to fear. It was clear, they 
said, that he found Checco too strong for him, and 
dared nothing. It was a discovery that the man 
they had so feared was willing to turn the other 
cheek when the one was smitten ; and to all their 
former hate they added a new hate that he had 
caused them terror without being terrible. They 
hated him now for their own pusillanimity. The 
mocking songs gained force, and Girolamo began to 
be known as Cornuto, the Man of Horns. 

Borne on this wave of contempt came another 
incident, which again showed the count’s weakness. 
On the Sunday following his meeting with Checco, 
it was known that Girolamo meant to hear mass at 
the Church of San Stefano, and Jacopo Ronchi, com- 
mander of a troop, stationed himself, with two other 
soldiers, to await him. When the count appeared, 
accompanied by his wife and children and his suite, 
Jacopo pressed forward, and, throwing himself on his 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. lOj 

knees, presented a petition, in which he asked for the 
arrears of pay of himself and his fellows. The count 
took it without speaking, and pursued his way. Then 
Jacopo took hold of his legs to stop him, and said : 

‘‘For Heaven’s sake, my lord, give me a hearing. 
I and these others have received nothing for months, 
and we are starving.” 

“ Let me go,” said the count ; “your claim shall be 
attended to.” 

“ Do not dismiss me, my lord. I have presented 
three petitions before, and to none of them have you 
paid attention. Now I am getting desperate, and 
can wait no longer. Look at my tattered clothes. 
Give me my money ! ” 

“ Let me go, I tell you,” said Girolamo, furiously, 
and he gave him a sweeping blow, so that the man 
fell on his back to the ground. “ How dare you come 
and insult me here in the public place ! By God ! 
I cannot keep my patience much longer.” 

He brought out these words with such violence of 
passion that it seemed as if in them exploded the 
anger which had been gathering up through this 
time of humiliation. Then, turning furiously on the 
people, he almost screamed : 

“ Make way ! ” 

They dared not face his anger, and, with white 
faces, shrunk back, leaving a path for him and his 
party to walk through. 


CHAPTER XII. 


I LOOKED at these events as I might have looked 
at a comedy of Plautus ; it was very amusing, but per- 
haps a little vulgar. I was wrapped up in my own 
happiness, and I had forgotten Nemesis. 

One day, perhaps two months from my arrival in 
Forli, I heard Checco tell his cousin that a certain 
Giorgio dalP Aste had returned. I paid no particular 
attention to the remark ; but later, when I was alone 
with Matteo, it occurred to me that I had not heard 
before of this person. I did not know that Giulia had 
relations on her husband’s side. I asked : 

By the way, who is that Giorgio dall’ Aste, of 
whom Checco was speaking.'^” 

A cousin of Donna Giulia’s late husband.” 

“I have never heard him spoken of before.” 

‘‘ Haven’t you ? He enjoys quite a peculiar reputa- 
tion, as being the only lover that the virtuous Giulia 
has kept for more than ten days.” 

‘‘Another of your old wives’ tales, Matteo! Na- 
ture intended you for a begging friar.” 

io8 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


109 


I have often thought I have missed my vocation. 
With my brilliant gift for telling lies in a truthful 
manner, I should have made my way in the Church 
to the highest dignities. Whereas, certain antiquated 
notions of honour having been instilled into me dur- 
ing my training as a soldier, my gifts are lost ; with 
the result that, when I tell the truth, people think I 
am lying. But this is solemn truth ! 

All your stories are ! ’’ I jeered. 

Ask any one. This has been going on for years. 
When Giulia was married by old Tomasso, whom she 
had never seen in her life before the betrothal, the 
first thing she did was to fall in love with Giorgio. 
He fell in love with her, but, being a fairly honest 
sort of man, he had some scruples about committing 
adultery with his cousin’s wife, especially as he lived 
on his cousin’s money. However, when a woman is 
vicious, a man’s scruples soon go to the devil. If 
Adam couldn’t refuse the apple, you can’t expect us 
poor fallen creatures to do so, either. The result was 
that Joseph did not run away from Potiphar’s wife so 
fast as to prevent her from catching him.” 

How biblical you are ! ” 

Yes,” answered Matteo ; I’m making love to a 
parson’s mistress, and I am cultivating the style 
which I find she is used to. . . . But, however, 
Giorgio, being youthful, after a short while began to 
have prickings of conscience, and went away from 


I lO 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


Forli. Giulia was heart-broken, and her grief was 
so great that she must have half the town to console 
her. Then Giorgio’s conscience calmed down, and 
he came back, and Giulia threw over all her lovers.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe a single word you say.” 

‘‘ On my honour, it’s true.” 

“ On the face of it, the story is false. If she 
really loves him, why do they not keep together now 
that there is no hindrance ? ” 

‘‘ Because Giulia has the heart of a strumpet, and 
can’t be faithful to any one man. She’s very fond of 
him, but they quarrel, and she takes a sudden fancy 
for somebody else, and for awhile they won’t see 
one another. But there seems some magical charm 
between them, for sooner or later they always come 
back to one another. I believe, if they were at the 
ends of the world, eventually they would be drawn 
together, even if they struggled with all their might 
against it. And, I promise you, Giorgio has strug- 
gled ; he tries to part with her for good and all, and 
each time they separate he vows it shall be for ever. 
But there is an invisible chain, and it always brings 
him back.” 

I stood looking at him in silence. Strange, hor- 
rible thoughts passed through my head, and I could 
not drive them away. I tried to speak quite calmly. 

“ And how is it when they are together ? ” 

“ All sunshine and storm, but, as time goes on, the 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. I 1 1 

storm gets longer and blacker ; and then Giorgio 
goes away.” 

But, good God ! man, how do you know } ” I 
cried, in agony. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ They quarrel ” I asked. 

Furiously ! He feels himself imprisoned against 
his will, with the door open to escape, but not the 
strength to do it ; and she is angry that he should 
love her thus, trying not to love her. It rather 
seems to me that it explains her own excesses ; her 
other loves are partly to show him how much she is 
loved, and to persuade herself that she is lovable.” 

I did not believe it. Oh, no, I swear I did not be- 
lieve it, yet I was frightened, horribly frightened ; 
but I would not believe a single word of it. 

‘‘Listen, Matteo,” I said. “You believe badly of 
Giulia ; but you do not know her. I swear to you 
that she is good and pure, whatever she may have 
been in the past ; and I do not believe a word of 
these scandals. I am sure that now she is as true 
and faithful as she is beautiful.” 

Matteo looked at me for a moment. 

“Are you her lover V he asked. 

“ Yes ! ” 

Matteo opened his mouth as if about to speak, 
then stopped, and after a moment’s hesitation turned 
away. 


I 12 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


That evening I went to Giulia. I found her lying 
full length on a divan, her head sunken in soft 
cushions. She was immersed in reverie. I won- 
dered whether she were thinking of me, and I went 
up to her silently, and, bending over her, lightly 
kissed her lips. She gave a cry, and a frown dark- 
ened her eyes. 

‘‘You frightened me!’’ 

“ I am sorry,” I answered, humbly. “ I wanted to 
surprise you.” 

She did not answer, but raised her eyebrows, 
slightly shrugging her shoulders. I wondered 
whether something had arisen to vex her. I knew 
she had a quick temper, but I did not mind it ; a 
cross word was so soon followed by a look of repent- 
ance and a word of love. I passed my hand over her 
beautiful soft hair. The frown came again, and she 
turned her head away. 

“ Giulia,” I said, “ what is it ” I took her hand ; 
she withdrew it immediately. 

“ Nothing,” she answered. 

“Why do you turn away from me and withdraw 
your hand } ” 

“ Why should I not turn away from you and with- 
draw my hand } ” 

“ Don’t you love me, Giulia } ” 

She gave a sigh, and pretended to look bored. I 
looked at her, pained at heart, and wondering. 



“‘YOU NKED HAVE NO FEAR ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER,’ I 
ANSWERED, BITTERLY.” 





THE MAKING OF A SAINT. II3 

‘‘Giulia, my dear, tell me what it is. You are 
making me very unhappy.'’ 

“ Oh, don’t I tell you, nothing, nothing, nothing ! ” 

“ Why are you cross } ” 

I put my face to hers and my arms around her 
neck. She disengaged herself impatiently. 

“ You refuse my kisses, Giulia ! ” 

She made another gesture of annoyance. 

“ Giulia, don’t you love me ” My heart was be- 
ginning to sink, and I remembered what I had heard 
from Matteo. Oh, God ! could it be true } . . . 

“Yes, of course I love you, but sometimes I must 
be left in peace.” 

“You have only to say the word, and I will go 
away altogether.” 

“ I don’t want you to do that, but we shall like one 
another much better, if we don’t see too much of 
one another.” 

“ When one is in love, really and truly, one does 
not think of such wise precautions.” 

“ And you are here so often that I am afraid of 
my good name.” 

“ You need have no fear about your character,” I 
answered, bitterly. “ One more scandal will not 
make much difference.” 

“ You need not insult me ! ” 

I could not be angry with her, I loved her too 
much ; and the words I had said hurt me ten times 


1 14 the making of a saint, 

more than they hurt her. I fell on my knees by her 
side and took hold of her arms. 

“ Oh, Giulia, Giulia, forgive me ! I don’t mean to 
say anything to wound you. But, for God’s sake, 
don’t be so cold ! I love you, I love you. Be good 
to me.” 

‘‘ I think I have been good to you. . . . After all, 
it is not such a very grave matter. I have not taken 
things more seriously than you.” 

‘‘What do you mean ” I cried, aghast. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ I suppose you found me a pretty woman, and 
thought you could occupy a few spare moments with 
a pleasant amour. You can hardly have expected 
me to be influenced by sentiments very different 
from your own.” 

“ You mean you do not love me ? ” 

“ I love you as much as you love me. I don’t sup- 
pose either you are Lancelot, or I Guinevere.” 

I still knelt at her side in silence, and my head 
felt as if the vessels in it were bursting. . . . 

“You know,” she went on, quite calmly, “one can- 
not love for ever.” 

“ But I love you, Giulia ; I love you with all my 
heart and soul ! I have had loves picked up for the 
opportunity’s sake, or for pure idleness ; but my love 
for you is different. I swear to you it is a matter of 
my whole life.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. I 1 5 

‘‘ That has been said to me so often. . . 

I was beginning to be overwhelmed. 

‘‘ But do you mean that it is all finished 1 Do you 
mean that you won’t have anything more to do with 
me 1 ” 

don’t say I won’t have anything more to do 
with you.” 

‘‘But love.^ It is love I want.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ But why not ” I said, despairingly. “ Why have 
you given it me at all if you want to take it away } ” 

“ One is not master of one’s love. It comes and 
goes.” 

“ Don’t you love me at all 1 ” 

“No! ” 

“ O God ! But why do you tell me this to-day } ” 

“I had to tell you, sometime.” 

“ But why not yesterday, or the day before } Why 
to-day particularly ” 

She did not answer. 

“Is it because Giorgio dall’ Aste has just re- 
turned } ” 

She started up, and her eyes flashed. 

“ What have they been telling you about him } ” 

“ Has he been here to-day } Were you thinking of 
him when I came } Were you languorous from his 
embraces } ” 

“ How dare you ! ” 


I 1 6 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

‘‘ The only lover to whom you have been faithful, 
more or less ! 

‘‘ You vowed you did not believe the scandals about 
me, and now, when I refuse you the smallest thing, 
you are ready to believe every word. What a love 
is this ! I thought I had heard you talk so often of 
boundless confidence.’’ 

I believe every word I have heard against you. 
I believe you are a harlot.” 

She had raised herself from her couch, and we 
were standing face to face. 

‘‘ Do you want money 1 Look ! I have as good 
money as another. I will pay you for your love ; 
here, take it.” 

I took gold pieces from my pocket and flung them 
at her feet. 

Ah,” she cried, in indignation, you cur ! Go, 
go!” 

She pointed to the door. Then I felt a sudden 
revulsion. I fell on my knees and seized her 
hands. 

‘‘ Oh, forgive me, Giulia. I don’t know what I am 
saying ; I am mad. But don’t rob me of your love ; 
it is the only thing I have to live for. For God’s 
sake, forgive me ! O Giulia, I love you, I love 
you ! I can’t live without you.” The tears broke 
from my eyes. I could not stop them. 

‘‘ Leave me ! leave me ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. I 1/ 

I was ashamed of my abjectness ; I rose up, 
indignant. 

‘‘Oh, you are quite heartless. You have no right 
to treat me so. You were not obliged to give me 
your love ; but when once you have given it you can- 
not take it away. No one has the right to make 
another unhappy as you make me. You are a bad, 
evil woman. I hate you ! 

I stood over her with clenched fists. She shrank 
back, afraid. 

“Don't be frightened," I said; “I won't touch 
you. I hate you too much." 

Then I turned to the crucifix, and lifted my hands. 

“ O God, I pray you, let this woman be treated 
as she has treated me." And to her, “ I hope to 
God you are as unhappy as I am. And I hope the 
unhappiness will come soon, — you harlot ! " 

I left her, and in my rage slammed the door so 
that the lock shattered behind me. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


I WALKED through the streets like a man who has 
received sentence of death. My brain was whirling, 
and sometimes I stopped and pressed my head with 
both hands to relieve the insupportable pressure. 
I could not realise what had happened ; I only knew 
it was terrible. I felt as if I were going mad ; I 
could have killed myself. At last, getting home, 
I threw myself on my bed, and tried to gather my- 
self together. I cried out against that woman. I 
wished I had my fingers curling around her soft white 
throat, that I could strangle the life out of her. Oh, 
I hated her ! 

At last I fell asleep, and in that sweet forgetful- 
ness enjoyed a little peace. When I woke, I lay still 
for a moment without remembering what had hap- 
pened ; then suddenly it came back to me, and the 
blood flushed to my face as I thought of how I had 
humiliated myself to her. She must be as hard as 
stone, I said to myself, to see my misery and not 
take pity on me. She saw my tears and was not 
moved one jot. All the time I had been praying and 

ii8 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT lig 

beseeching, she had been as calm as a marble figure. 
She must have seen my agony and the passion 
of my love, and yet she was absolutely, absolutely, 
indifferent. Oh, I despised her ! I had known, 
even when I adored her madly, that it was only 
my love which gave her the qualities I worshipped. 
I had seen she was ignorant and foolish, and com- 
monplace and vicious ; but I did not care as long as 
I loved her and could have her love in return. But 
when I thought of her so horribly heartless, so uncar- 
ing to my unhappiness, I did more than hate her, — 
I utterly despised her. I despised myself for hav- 
ing loved her. I despised myself for loving her 
still. . . . 

I got up and went about my day's duties, trying 
to forget myself in their performance. But still I 
brooded over my misery, and in my heart I cursed 
the woman. It was Nemesis, always Nemesis! In 
my folly I had forgotten her ; and yet I should have 
remembered that through my life all happiness had 
been followed by all misery. ... I had tried to 
ward off the evil by sacrifice ; I had rejoiced at the 
harm which befell me, but the very rejoicing seemed 
to render the hurt of no avail, and, with the inevita- 
bleness of fate, Nemesis had come and thrown me 
back into the old unhappiness. But of late I had 
forgotten. What was Nemesis to me now, when I 
thought my happiness so great that it could not help 


120 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


but last ? It was so robust and strong that I never 
thought of its cessation. I did not even think the 
gods were good to me at last. I had forgotten the 
gods ; I thought of nothing but love and Giulia. 

Matteo came asking me to go to the Palace with 
him and Checco, at the particular desire of Girolamo, 
who wished to show them the progress of the deco- 
rations. I would not go. I wanted to be alone and 
think. 

But my thoughts maddened me. Over and over 
again I repeated every word of the terrible quarrel, 
and more than ever I was filled with horror for her 
cold cruelty. What right have these people to make 
us unhappy.? Is there not enough misery in the 
world already .? Oh, it is brutal ! 

I could not bear myself ; I regretted that I had 
not gone to the Palace. I detested this solitude. 

The hours passed like years, and as my brain 
grew tired I sank into a state of sodden, passive 
misery. 

At last they came back, and Matteo told me what 
had happened. I tried to listen, to forget myself. 
... It appeared that the count had been extremely 
cordial. After talking to them of his house, and 
showing the beautiful things he had collected to 
furnish it with, he took them to Caterina’s apart- 
ments, where they found the countess surrounded 
by her children. She had been very charming and 


I2I 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

gracious, even deigning to compliment Matteo on 
his gallantry. How it interested me to know all 
this ! The children had run to Checco as soon 
as they saw him, dragging him into their game. 
The others looked on while the Orsi played good- 
humouredly with the little boys, and Girolamo, lay- 
ing his hand on Checco's shoulder, had remarked : 

‘‘You see, dear friend, the children are deter- 
mined that there should not be enmity between us. 
And when the little ones love you so dearly, can you 
think that I should hate you ? 

And when they left he had accompanied them to 
the gates and been quite affectionate in his farewell. 

At last the night came, and I could shut myself 
up in my room. I thought, with a bitter smile, that 
it was the hour at which I was used to go to Giulia. 
And now I should never go to Giulia again. My 
unhappiness was too great for wrath ; I felt too 
utterly miserable to think of my grievances, or of 
my contempt. I only felt broken-hearted. I could 
not keep the tears back, and, burying my face in the 
pillows, I cried my heart out. It was years and 
years since I had wept, not since I was quite a boy, 
but this blow had taken from me all manliness, and 
I gave myself over to my grief, passionately, shame- 
lessly. I did not care that I was weak ; I had no 
respect for myself, or care for myself. The sobs 
came, one on the heels of another, like waves, and 


122 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


the pain, as they tore my chest, relieved the anguish 
of my mind. Exhaustion came at last, and with it 
sleep. 

But I knew I could not hide the change in me, 
and Matteo soon noticed it. 

‘‘What is the matter with you, Filippo.?'' he 
asked. I blushed and hesitated. 

“ Nothing," I answered, at last. 

“ I thought you were unhappy." 

Our eyes met, but I could not stand his inquiring 
glance, and looked down. He came to me, and, sit- 
ting on the arm of my chair, put his hand on my 
shoulder and said, affectionately : 

“ We're friends, aren’t we, Filippo ? " 

“Yes," I answered, smiling and taking his hand. 

“Won't you trust me .?” 

After a pause I answered : 

“ I should so much like to." I felt as if indeed it 
would relieve me to be able to confide in somebody, 
I wanted sympathy so badly. 

He passed his hand gently over my hair. 

I hesitated a little, but I could not help myself, 
and I told him the whole story from beginning to 
end. 

“ Poverino ! " he said, when I had finished ; then, 
clenching his teeth, “ She is a beast, that woman ! " 

“ I ought to have taken your warning, Matteo, 
but I was a fool." 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


123 


‘‘Who ever does take warning?” he answered, 
shrugging his shoulders. “ How could you be ex- 
pected to believe me ? ” 

“ But I believe you now. I am horrified when I 
think of her vice and cruelty.” 

“Ah, well, it is over now.” 

“ Quite ! I hate her and despise her. Oh, I wish 
I could get her face to face and tell her what I think 
of her.” 

I thought my talk with Matteo had relieved me, 
I thought the worst was over ; but at night melan- 
choly came on me stronger than ever, and I groaned 
as I threw myself on my bed. I felt so terribly 
alone in the world. ... I had no relation but a 
half-brother, a boy of twelve, whom I had hardly 
seen ; and as I wandered through the land, an exile, 
I had been continually assailed by the hateful demon 
of loneliness. And sometimes in my solitude I had 
felt that I could kill myself. But when I found I 
was in love with Giulia, I cried aloud with joy. . . . 
I threw everything to the winds, gathering myself 
up for the supreme effort of passion. All the storm 
and stress were passed ; I was no longer alone, for 
I had some one to whom I could give my love. I 
was like the ship that arrives in the harbour, and 
reefs her sails and clears her deck, settling down in 
the quietness of the waters. 

And now all was over ! O God, to think that 


124 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


my hopes should be shattered in so short a time ! 
that the ship should be so soon tossed about in the 
storm, and the stars hidden by the clouds ! And the 
past delight made the present darkness all the more 
bitter. I groaned. In my misery I uttered a prayer 
to God to help me. I could not think I should live 
henceforth. How could I go on existing, with this 
aching void in my heart ? I could not spend days 
and weeks and years always with this despair. It 
was too terrible to last. My reason told me that 
time would remedy it ; but time was so long, and 
what misery must I go through before the wound 
was healed ! And as I thought of what I had lost, 
my agony grew more unbearable. It grew vivid, and 
I felt Giulia in my arms. I panted as I pressed my 
lips against hers, and I said to her : 

How could you ! '' 

I buried my face in my hands, so as better to enjoy 
my dream. I smelt the perfume of her breath ; I felt 
on my face the light touch of her hair. But it would 
not last. I tried to seize the image and hold it back, 
but it vanished and left me broken-hearted. . . . 

I knew I did not hate her. I had pretended to, 
but the words came from the mouth. In my heart 
I loved her still, more passionately than ever. What 
did I care if she were heartless and cruel and faith- 
less and vicious ! It was nothing to me as long as 
I could hold her in my arms and cover her with 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


125 


kisses. I did de^spise her ; I knew her for what 
she was, but still I loved her insanely. Oh, if she 
would only come back to me ! I would willingly 
forget everything and forgive her. Nay, I would 
ask her forgiveness and grovel before her, if she 
would only let me enjoy her love again. 

I would go back to her and fall on my knees, and 
pray her to be merciful. Why should I suppose she 
had changed in the few days ? I knew she would 
treat me with the same indifference, and only feel a 
wondering contempt that I should so abase myself. 
It came like a blow in the face, the thought of her 
cold cruelty and her calmness. No, I vowed I would 
never subject myself to that again. I felt myself 
blush at the remembrance of the humiliation. But 
perhaps she was sorry for what she had done. I 
knew her pride would prevent her from coming or 
sending to me, and should I give her no opportunity ? 
Perhaps, if we saw one another for a few moments 
everything might be arranged, and I might be happy 
again. An immense feeling of hope filled me. I 
thought I must be right in my idea ; she could not 
be so heartless as to have no regret. How willingly 
I would take her back ! My heart leaped. But I 
dared not go to her house. I knew I should find her 
on the morrow at her father's, who was going to give 
a banquet to some friends. I would speak to her 
there, casually, as if we were ordinary acquaintances ; 


126 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


and then at the first sign of yielding on her part, 
even if I saw but a tinge of regret in her eyes, I 
would burst out. I was happy in my plan, and 
I went to sleep with the name of Giulia on my lips 
and her image in my heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


I WENT to the Moratini Palace, and with beating 
heart looked around for Giulia. She was surrounded 
by her usual court, and seemed more lively and ex- 
cited than ever. I had never seen her more beauti- 
ful. She was dressed all in white, and her sleeves 
were sown with pearls ; she looked like a bride. She 
caught sight of me at once, but pretended not to see 
me, and went on talking. 

I approached her brother Alessandro, and said to 
him, casually : 

‘‘ I am told a cousin of your sister has come to 
Forli. Is he here to-day.? ’’ 

He looked at me inquiringly, not immediately 
understanding. 

‘‘ Giorgio dalh Aste,'’ I explained. 

‘‘ Oh, I didn’t know you meant him. No, he’s not 
here. He and Giulia’s husband were not friends, and 
so — ” 

‘‘ Why were they not friends ? ” I interrupted, on 
the spur of the moment, not seeing the impertinence 
of the question till I had made it. 


127 


128 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


‘‘ Oh, I don’t know. Relations always are at en- 
mity with one another ; probably some disagreement 
with regard to their estates.” 

‘‘Was that all.?” 

“ So far as I know.” 

I recollected that in a scandal the persons most 
interested are the last to hear it. The husband 
hears nothing of his wife’s treachery till all the town 
knows every detail. 

“ I should like to have seen him,” I went on. 

“ Giorgio .? Oh, he’s a weak sort of creature ; one 
of those men who commit sins and repent ! ” 

“ That is not a fault of which you will ever be 
guilty, Alessandro,” I said, smiling. 

“ I sincerely hope not. After all, if a man has a 
conscience he ought not to do wrong ; but if he does, 
he must be a very poor sort of a fool to repent.” 

“You cannot have the rose without the thorn.” 

“ Why not .? It only needs care. There are dregs 
at the bottom of every cup, but you are not obliged 
to drink them.” 

“You have made up your mind that if you com- 
mit sins you are ready to go to hell for them .? ” I 
said. 

“It is braver than going to heaven by the back 
door, turning pious when you are too old to do any- 
thing you shouldn’t.” 

“ I agree with you, that one has little respect for 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


129 


the man who turns monk when things go wrong with 
him.” 

I saw that Giulia was alone, and seized the oppor- 
tunity to speak with her. 

‘‘ Giulia,” I said, approaching. 

She looked at me for a moment, with an air of per- 
plexity, as if she really could not remember who I 
was. 

*‘Ah, Messer Filippo!” she said, as if suddenly 
recollecting. 

It is not so long since we met that you can have 
forgotten me.” 

“ Yes ; I remember the last time you did me the 
honour to visit me you were very rude and cross.” 

I looked at her silently, wondering. 

“Well.^” she said, steadily answering my gaze, 
and smiling. 

‘‘ Have you nothing more to say to me than that } ” 
I asked, in an undertone. 

‘‘ What do you want me to say to you } ” 

Are you quite heartless } ” 

She gave a sigh of boredom, and looked to the 
other end of the room, as if for some one to come 
and break a tedious conversation. 

‘‘ How could you } ” I whispered. 

Notwithstanding her self-control, a faint flush 
came over her face. I stood looking at her for a 
little while, and then I turned away. She was quite 


130 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


heartless. I left the Moratini and walked out into 
the town. This last interview had helped me, in so 
far that it made certain that my love was hopeless. 
I stood still, and stamped on the ground, vowing I 
would not love her. I would put her away from my 
thoughts entirely; she was a contemptible, vicious 
woman, and I was too proud to be subject to her. I 
wondered I did not kill her. I made up my mind to 
take my courage in both hands and leave Forli. 
Once away, I should find myself attracted to differ- 
ent matters, and probably I should not live long 
before finding some other woman to take Giulia’s 
place. She was not the only woman in Italy ; she 
was not the most beautiful nor the cleverest. Give 
me a month, and I could laugh at my torments. . . . 

The same evening I told Matteo I meant to leave 
Forli. 

‘‘ Why ? ” he asked, in astonishment. 

I have been here several weeks,” I answered ; 

I don’t want to outstay my welcome.” 

^‘That is rubbish. You know I should be only 
too glad for you to stay here all your life.” 

‘‘This is very kind of you,” I replied, with a laugh, 
“but the establishment is not yours.” 

“ That makes no difference. Besides, Checco has 
become very fond of you, and I’m sure he wishes you 
to stay.” 

“ Of course, I know your hospitality is quite un- 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 1 3 I 

limited ; but I am beginning to want to get back to 
Citta di Castello/’ 

‘‘ Why ? asked Matteo, doubtfully. 

‘‘One likes to return to one’s native place.” 

“ You have been away from Gastello for ten years ; 
you cannot be in any particular hurry to get back } ” 

I was beginning to protest, when Checco came in, 
and Matteo interrupted me with, — 

“ Listen, Checco, Filippo says he wants to leave us.” 

“ But he sha’n’t,” said Checco, laughing. 

“ I really must,” I answered, gravely. 

“ You really mustn’t,” replied Checco. “ We can’t 
spare you, Filippo.” 

“There’s no great hurry about your going home,” 
he added, when I had explained my reasons, “ and I 
fancy that soon we shall want you here. A good 
sword and a brave heart will probably be of good use 
to us.” 

“ Everything is as quiet as a cemetery,” I said, 
shrugging my shoulders. 

“ It is quiet above ; but below there are rumblings 
and strange movements. I feel sure this calm only 
presages a storm. It is impossible for Girolamo to 
go on as he is now ; his debts are increasing every 
day, and his difficulties will soon be impracticable. 
He must do something. There is certain to be a 
disturbance at any attempt to put on the taxes, and 
then Heaven only knows what will happen.” 


132 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I was beginning to get a little vexed at their oppo- 
sition, and I answered, petulantly : 

‘‘ No, I must go/’ 

‘‘ Stay another month ; things must come to a 
head before then.” 

A month would have been as bad as a year. 

I am out of health,” I answered ; ‘‘ I feel I want 
to get into a different atmosphere.” 

Checco thought for a moment. 

“Very well,” he said, “we can arrange matters to 
suit us both. I want some one to go to Florence for 
me to conclude a little business matter with Messer 
Lorenzo de’ Medici. You would be away a fort- 
night ; and, if you are out of sorts, the ride across 
country will put you right. Will you go.^” 

I thought for a moment. It was not a very long 
absence, but the new sights would distract me, and 
I wanted to see Florence again. On the whole, I 
thought it would suffice, and that I could count on 
the cure of my ill before the time was up. 

“ Very well,” I answered. 

“ Good ! And you will have a pleasant companion. 
I had talked to Scipione Moratini about it ; it did not 
occur to me that you would go. But it will be all the 
better to have two of you.” 

“If I go,” I said, “ I shall go alone.” 

Checco was rather astonished. 

“Why.?” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


133 


‘‘ Scipione bores me. I want to be quiet and do 
as I like.” 

I was quite determined that neither of the Mora- 
tini should come with me. They would have re- 
minded me too much of what I wanted to forget. 

‘‘As you like,” said Checco. “I can easily tell 
Scipione that I want him to do something else for 

^ ff 

me. 

“ Thanks.” 

“ When will you start ? ” 

“At once.” 

“Then come, and I will give you the instructions 
and necessary papers.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Next morning I mounted my horse and set out 
with Matteo, who was to accompany me for a little 
way. 

But at the town gate a guard stopped us and asked 
where we were going. 

“ Out ! I answered shortly, moving on. 

“ Stop ! ” said the man, catching hold of my bridle. 

‘‘ What the devil d’you mean ? ” said Matteo. 
‘‘ D’you know whom we are ? ” 

I have orders to let no one go by without the 
permission of my captain.” 

“ What tyrants they are ! ” cried Matteo. ‘‘ Well, 
what the hell are you standing there for ? Go and 
tell your captain to come out.” 

The man signed to another soldier, who went into 
the guard-house ; he was still holding my bridle. I 
was not very good-tempered that morning. 

‘‘ Have the goodness to take your hands off,” I 
said. 

He looked as if he were about to refuse. 

‘‘ Will you do as you are told ? ” Then, as he 
134 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 1 35 

hesitated, I brought down the butt-end of my whip 
on his fingers, and, with an oath, bade him stand off. 
He let go at once, cursing, and looked as if he would 
stab me if he dared. We waited impatiently, but 
the captain did not appear. 

‘‘ Why the devil doesn’t this man come,” I said ; 
and Matteo, turning to one of the soldiers, ordered : 

“Go and tell him to come here instantly.” 

At that moment the captain appeared, and we 
understood the incident, for it was Ercole Piacentini. 
He had apparently seen us coming, or heard of my 
intended journey, and had set himself out to insult 
us. We were both furious. 

“ Why the devil don’t you hurry up when you’re 
sent for?'' said Matteo. 

He scowled, but did not answer. Turning to me, 
he asked : 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

Matteo and I looked at one another, in amazement 
at the man’s impudence, and I burst forth : 

“You insolent fellow! What do you mean by 
stopping me like this ” 

“ I have a right to refuse passage to any one I 
choose.” 

“ Take care 1 ” I said. “ I swear the count shall 
be told of your behaviour, and nowadays the count is 
in the habit of doing as the Orsi tell him.” 

“ He shall hear of this,” growled the Piacentini. 


136 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

‘‘Tell him what you like. Do you think I care.? 
You can tell him that I consider his captain a very 
impertinent ruffian. Now, let me go.” 

“ You shall not pass till I choose.” 

“ By God ! man,” I said, absolutely beside myself, 
“it seems I cannot touch you here, but if ever we 
meet in Citta di Gastello — ” 

“I will give you any satisfaction you wish,” he 
answered, hotly. 

“ Satisfaction ! I would not soil my sword by 
crossing it with yours. I was going to say that if 
ever we meet in Gastello I will have you whipped 
by my lackeys in the public place.” 

I felt a ferocious pleasure in throwing the words 
of contempt in his face. 

“Gome on,” said Matteo ; “we cannot waste our 
time here.” 

We put the spurs to our horses. The soldiers 
looked to their captain to see whether they should 
stop us, but he gave no order, and we passed through. 
When we got outside, Matteo said to me : 

“ Girolamo must be planning something, or Ercole 
would not have dared to do that.” 

“ It is only the impotent anger of a foolish man,” 
I answered. “The count will probably be very 
angry with him when he hears of it.” 

We rode a few miles, and then Matteo turned 
back. When I found myself alone I heaved a great 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


137 


sigh of relief. I was free for awhile at least. . . . 
Another episode in my life was finished ; I could 
forget it, and look forward to new things. 

As I rode on, the March wind got into my blood 
and sent it whirling madly through my veins. The 
sun was shining brightly, and covered everything 
with smiles ; the fruit-trees were all in flower, — 
apples, pears, almonds, — the dainty buds covered 
the branches with a snow of pink and white. The 
ground beneath them was bespattered with narcissi 
and anemones ; the very olive-trees looked gay. All 
the world laughed with joy at the bright spring 
morning, and I laughed louder than the rest. I 
drew in long breaths of the keen air, and it made 
me drunk, so that I set the spurs to my horse and 
galloped wildly along the silent road. 

I had made up my mind to forget Giulia, and I 
succeeded, for the changing scenes took me away 
from myself, and I was intent on the world at large. 
But I could not command my dreams. At night she 
came to me, and I dreamed that she was by my side, 
with her arms around my neck, sweetly caressing, 
trying to make me forget what I had suffered. And 
the waking was bitter. . . . But even that would 
leave me soon, I hoped, and then I should be free 
indeed. 

I rode on, full of courage and good spirits, along 
endless roads, putting up at wayside inns, through 


138 THE MAKING OE A SAINT 

the mountains, past villages and hamlets, past thriv- 
ing towns, till I found myself in the heart of Tuscany, 
and finally I saw the roofs of Florence spread out 
before me. 

After I had cleaned myself at the inn, and had 
eaten, I sauntered through the town, renewing my 
recollections. I walked around Madonna del Fiore, 
and, leaning against one of the houses at the back of 
the piazza, looked at the beautiful apse, the marble all 
glistening in the moonlight. It was very quiet and 
peaceful; the exquisite church filled me with a sense 
of rest and purity, so that I cast far from me all vice. 
. . . Then I went to the baptistery, and tried to 
make out in the dim light the details of Ghiberti’s 
wonderful doors. It was late, and the streets were 
silent, as I strolled to the Piazza della Signoria, and 
saw before me the grim stone palace with its tower, 
and I came down to the Arno and looked at the 
glistening of the water, with the bridge covered with 
houses ; and, as I considered the beauty of it all, I 
thought it strange that the works of man should be 
so good and pure, and man himself so vile. 

Next day I set about my business. I had a spe- 
cial letter of introduction to Lorenzo, and was ushered 
in to him by a clerk. I found two people in the 
room : one, a young man with a long, oval face, and 
the bones of the face and chin very strongly marked ; 
he had a very wonderful skin, like brown ivory, black 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


139 


hair that fell over his forehead and ears, and, most 
striking of all, large brown eyes, very soft and mel- 
ancholy. I thought I had never before seen a man 
quite so beautiful. Seated by him, talking with ani- 
mation, was an insignificant man, bent and wrinkled 
and mean, looking like a clerk in a cloth merchant’s 
shop, except for the massive golden chain about his 
neck and the dress of dark red velvet with an em- 
broidered collar. His features were ugly ; a large, 
coarse nose, a heavy, sensual mouth, small eyes, but 
very sharp and glittering ; the hair thin and short, 
the skin muddy, yellow, wrinkled, — Lorenzo de’ 
Medici ! 

As I entered the room, he interrupted himself and 
spoke to me in a harsh, disagreeable voice. 

‘‘Messer Filippo Brandolini, I think. You are 
very welcome.” 

“ I am afraid I interrupt you,” I said, looking at 
the youth with the melancholy eyes. 

“ Oh, no,” answered Lorenzo, gaily. “ We were 
talking of Plato. I really ought to have been attend- 
ing to very much more serious matters, but I never 
can resist Pico.” 

Then that was the famous Pico della Mirandola. 
I looked at him again, and felt envious that one per- 
son should be possessed of such genius and such 
beauty. It was hardly fair on Nature’s part. 

“ It is more the subject than I that is irresistible.” 


140 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


“ Ah, the banquet ! said Lorenzo, clasping his 
hands. “ What an inexhaustible matter ! I could 
go on talking about it all day and all night for a year, 
and then find I had left unsaid half what I had in my 
mind.” 

‘^You have so vast an experience in the subject 
treated of,” said Pico, laughing; “you could give a 
chapter of comment to every sentence of Plato.” 

“You rascal, Pico ! ” answered Lorenzo, also laugh- 
ing. “ And what is your opinion of love, messer } ” 
he added, turning to me. 

I answered, smiling : 

“ Con tua promesse, et tua false parole, 

Con falsi risi, et con vago sembiante, 

Donna, menato hai il tuo fidele amante.” 

Those promises of thine, and those false words. 

Those traitor smiles, and that inconstant seeming. 

Lady, with these thou’st led astray thy faithful lover. 

They were Lorenzo’s own lines, and he was 
delighted that I should quote them, but still the 
pleasure was not too great, and I saw that it must 
be subtle flattery indeed that should turn his 
head. 

“ You have the spirit of a courtier, Messer Filippo,” 
he said, in reply to my quotation. “You are wasted 
on liberty ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 14I 

‘‘ It is in the air in Florence, — one breathes it in 
through every pore/' 

‘‘What, liberty?" 

“ No ; the spirit of the courtier." 

Lorenzo looked at me sharply, then at Pico, repress- 
ing a smile at my sarcasm. 

“Well, about your business from Forli ? " he said ; 
but when I began explaining the transaction, he inter- 
rupted me. “ Oh, all that you can arrange with my 
secretaries. Tell me what is going on in the town. 
There have been rumours of disturbance." 

I looked at Pico, who rose and went out, say- 
ing : 

“ I will leave you. Politics are not for me." 

I told Lorenzo all that had happened, while he 
listened intently, occasionally interrupting me to ask 
a question. When I had finished, he said : 

“ And what will happen now ? " 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“ Who knows ? " 

“ The wise man knows," he said, earnestly, “ for he 
has made up his mind what will happen, and goes 
about to cause it to happen. It is only the fool who 
trusts to chance and waits for circumstances to 
develop themselves. . . . 

“ Tell your master — " 

“ I beg your pardon ? " I interrupted. 

He looked at me interrogatively. 


142 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ I was wondering of whom you were speaking, I 
murmured. 

He understood and, smiling, said : 

“ I apologise. I was thinking you were a Forlivese. 
Of course, I remember now that you are a citizen of 
Gastello, and we all know how tenacious they have 
been of their liberty and how proud of their free- 
dom.’^ 

He had me on the hip, for Citta di Gastello had 
been among the first of the towns to lose its liberty, 
and, unlike others, had borne its servitude with more 
equanimity than was honourable. 

However,” he went on, “ tell Ghecco d’Orsi that 
I know Girolamo Riario. It was his father and he 
who were the prime movers in the conspiracy which 
killed my brother and nearly killed myself. Let him 
remember that the Riario is perfectly unscrupulous, 
and that he is not accustomed to forgive an injury, — 
or forget it. You say that Girolamo has repeatedly 
threatened Ghecco. Has that had no effect on 
him.?” 

He was somewhat alarmed.” 

‘‘ Besides ? ” 

I looked at him, trying to seize his meaning. 

‘‘ Did he make up his mind to sit still and wait till 
Girolamo found means to carry his threats into 
effect .?” 

I was rather at a loss for an answer. Lorenzo’s 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


143 


eyes were fixed keenly upon me ; they seemed to be 
trying to read my brain. 

It was suggested to him that it would be unwise,” 
I replied, slowly. 

‘‘ And what did he answer to that ^ ” 

‘‘He recalled the ill results of certain recent — 
events.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

He took his eyes off me, as if he had suddenly 
seen the meaning behind my words, and was now 
quite sure of everything he wanted to know. He 
walked up and down the room, thinking ; then he said 
to me : 

“Tell Checco that Girolamo’s position is very in- 
secure. The Pope is against him, though he pretends 
to uphold him. You remember that when the Zam- 
peschi seized his castle of San Marco, Girolamo 
thought they had the tacit consent of the Pope, and 
dared make no reprisal. Lodovico Sforza would 
doubtless come to the assistance of his half-sister, 
but he is occupied with the Venetians, — and if the 
people of Forli hate the count ! ” 

“ Then you advise — ” 

“ I advise nothing. But let Checco know that it 
is only the fool who proposes to himself an end when 
he cannot or will not attain it ; but the man who 
deserves the name of man marches straight to the 
goal with clearness of mind and strength of will. He 


144 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


looks at things as they are, and puts aside all vain 
appearances ; and when his intelligence has shown 
him the means to his end, he is a fool if he refuses 
them, and he is a wise man if he uses them steadily 
and unhesitatingly. Tell that to Checco ! 

He threw himself into his chair with a little cry of 
relief. 

“ Now we can talk of other things. Pico ! ” 

A servant came in to say that Pico had gone 
away. 

‘‘The villain!’' cried Lorenzo. “But I daresay 
you will want to go away, too, Messer Brandolini. 
But you must come to-morrow ; we are going to 
act the Menacchini of Plautus ; and besides the wit 
of the Latin you will see all the youth and beauty of 
Florence.” 

As I took my leave, he added : 

“ I need not warn you to be discreet.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A FEW days later I found myself in sight of Forli. 
As I rode along, I meditated ; and presently the 
thought came to me that, after all, there was per- 
haps a certain equality in the portioning out of good 
and evil in this world. When fate gave one happi- 
ness, she followed it with unhappiness, but the two 
lasted about an equal time, so that the balance was 
not unevenly preserved. ... In my love for Giulia 
I had gone through a few days of intense happiness ; 
the first kiss had caused me such ecstasy that I was 
rapt up to heaven ; I felt myself a god. And this 
was followed by a sort of passive happiness, when I 
lived but t© enjoy my love, and cared for nothing in 
the world besides. Then came the catastrophe, and 
I passed through the most awful misery that man 
had ever felt ; even now, as I thought of it, the 
sweat gathered on my forehead. But I noticed that 
strangely as this wretchedness was equal with the 
first happiness, so was it equal in length. And, this 
was followed by a passive unhappiness, when I no 
longer felt all the bitterness of my woe, but only a 
145 


146 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


certain dull misery, which was like peace. And half 
smiling, half sighing, I thought that the passive 
misery again was equal to the passive happiness. 
Finally came the blessed state of indifference, and, 
except for the remembrance, my heart was as if 
nothing had been at all. Sojt seemed to me that 
one qught_j]ipt_tp_ complain ; for if the world had no 
right to give one continual misery, one had no cause 
to expect unmingled happiness, and the conjunction 
of the two, in all things equal, seemed normal and 
reasonable. And I had not noticed that I was come 
to Forli. 

I entered the gate with a pleasant sense of home- 
coming. I passed along the gray streets I was begin- 
ning to know so well, and felt for them something 
of the affection of old friends. I was glad, too, that 
I should shortly see Checco and my dear Matteo. I 
felt I had been unkind to Matteo : he was so fond 
of me, and had always been so good, and I had been 
so wrapped up in my love that his very presence had 
been importunate, and I had responded coldly to his 
friendliness. And being then in a sentimental mood, 
I thought how much better and more trustworthy a 
friend is than the most lovely woman in the world. 
You could neglect him and be unfaithful to him, and 
yet, if you were in trouble, you could come back and 
he would take you to his arms and comfort you, 
and never once complain that you had strayed away. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


147 


I longed to be with Matteo, clasping his hand. In 
my hurry, I put the spurs to my horse, and clattered 
along the street. In a few minutes I had reached the 
Palazzo, leaped off my horse, sprung up the stairs, and 
flung myself into the arms of my friend. 

After the first greetings, Matteo dragged me along 
to Checco. 

The good cousin is m6st eager to hear your news. 
We must not keep him waiting.” 

Checco seemed as pleased to see me as Matteo. 
He warmly pressed my hand, and said : 

‘‘I am glad to have you back, P'ilippo. In your 
absence we have been lamenting like forsaken shep- 
herdesses. Now, what is your news } ” 

I was fully impressed with my importance at the 
moment, and the anxiety with which I was being lis- 
tened to. I resolved not to betray myself too soon, 
and began telling them about the kindness of Lorenzo, 
and the play which he had invited me to see. I de- 
scribed the brilliancy of the assembly, and the excel- 
lence of the acting. They listened with interest, but 
I could see it was not what they wanted to hear. 

‘‘ Blit I see you want to hear about more important 
matters,” I said. ‘‘Well — ” 

“Ah!” they cried,, drawing their chairs closer to 
me, settling themselves to listen attentively. 

With a slight smile I proceeded to give them the 
details of the commercial transaction which had been 


148 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


the ostensible purpose of my visit, and I laughed to 
myself as I saw their disgust. Checco could not 
restrain his impatience, but did not like to interrupt 
me. Matteo, however, saw that I was mocking, and 
interrupted me. 

‘‘ Confound you, Filippo ! Why do you torment 
us when you know we are on pins and needles ” 

Checco looked up and saw me laughing, and 
implored : 

‘‘ Put us out of torture, for heaven’s sake ! ” 

‘‘Very well!” I answered. “Lorenzo asked me 
about the state of Forli, and I told him. Then, after 
thinking awhile, he said, ‘ Tell this to Checco — ’ ” 

And I repeated, word for word, what Lorenzo had 
said to me, and, as far as I could, I reproduced his 
accent and gesture. 

When I had finished, they both sat still and silent. 
At last Matteo, glancing to his cousin, said : 

“ It seems sufficiently clear.” 

“ It is, indeed, very clear,” answered Checco, 
gravely. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


I MADE up my mind to amuse myself now. I was 
sick of being grave and serious. When one thinks 
how short a while youth lasts, it is foolish not to take 
the best advantage of it ; the time man has at his 
disposal is not long enough for tragedy and moan- 
ing ; he has only room for a little laughter, and then 
his hair gets gray, and his knees shaky, and he is left 
repenting that he did not make more of his opportu- 
nities. So, many people have told me that they have 
never regre tted their vices, but often their virtues ! 
Life is too short to take thmg^efiously.” Let us eat, 
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die. 

There was really so much to do in Forli that 
amusement became almost hard work. There were 
hunting parties in which we scoured the country all 
day, and returned at night, tired and sleepy, but with 
a delicious feeling of relief, stretching our limbs like 
giants waking from their sleep. There were excur- 
sions to villas, where we would be welcomed by some 
kind lady, and repeat on a smaller scale the Decam- 
eron of Boccaccio, or imitate the learned conversa- 

149 


ISO THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

tions of Lorenzo and his circle at Careggio ; we could 
platonise as well as they, an d we discovered the charm 
of treating impropriety from a philosophic point of 
view. We would set ourselves some subject and all 
write sonnets on it, and I noticed that the produc- 
tions of our ladies were always more highly spiced 
than our own. Sometimes we would play at being 
shepherds and shepherdesses, but in this I always 
failed lamentably, for my nymph invariably com- 
plained that I was not as enterprising as a swain 
should be. Then we would act pastoral plays in the 
shadow of the trees ; Orpheus was our favourite sub- 
ject, and I was always set for the title part, rather 
against my will, for I could never bring the proper 
vigour into my lament for Eurydice, since it always 
struck me as both unreasonable and ungallant to be 
so inconsolable for the loss of one love when there 
were all around so many to console one. . . . 

And in Forli itself there was a continuous whirl 
of amusement, festivities of every kind crowded on 
one, so that one had scarcely time to sleep, from the 
gravity and instructive tedium of a comedy by Ter- 
ence to a drinking bout or a card-party. I went 
everywhere, and everywhere received the heartiest 
of welcomes. I could sing and dance, and play the 
lute, and act, and I was ready to compose a sonnet, 
or an ode, at a moment's notice ; in a week I could 
produce a five-act tragedy in the Senecan manner, or 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 1 5 I 

an epic on Rinaldo or Launcelot, and, as I had not a 
care in the world, and was as merry as a drunken 
friar, they opened their arms to me, and gave me the 
best of all they had. . . . 

I was attentive to all the ladies, and scandalous 
tongues gave me half a dozen mistresses, with details 
of the siege and capture. I wondered whether the 
amiable Giulia heard the stories, and what she 
thought of them. Occasionally I saw her, but I 
did not trouble to speak to her ; Forli was large 
enough for the two of us ; and when people are 
disagreeable, why should you trouble your head 
about them } 

One afternoon I rode with Matteo a few miles out 
of Forli, to a villa where there was to be some festivity 
in honour of a christening. It was a beautiful spot, 
with fountains and shady walks, and pleasant lawns 
of well-mown grass, and I set myself to the enjoy- 
ment of another day. Among the guests was 
Claudia Piacentini. I pretended to be very angry 
with her because, at a ball which she had recently 
given, I had not received the honour of an invitation. 
She came to me to ask forgiveness. 

It was my husband,” she said, which I knew 
perfectly well. ‘‘He said he would not have you 
in his house. You've had another quarrel with 
him ! ” 


152 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


How can I help it, when I see him the possessor 
of the lovely Claudia ! ” 

<^He says he will never be satisfied till he has 
your blood/’ 

I was not alarmed. 

‘‘ He talked of making a vow never to cut his 
beard or his hair till he had his revenge, but I 
implored him not to make himself more hideous 
than a merciful Providence had already made him.” 

I thought of the ferocious Ercole, with a long, 
untrimmed beard, and unkempt hair falling over his 
face. 

He would have looked like a wild man of the 
woods,” I said. I should have had to allow myself 
to be massacred for the good of society. I should 
have been one more of the martyrs of humanity, — 
Saint Philip Brandolini ! ” 

I offered her my arm, suggesting a saunter through 
the gardens. . . . We wandered along cool paths, 
bordered with myrtle, and laurel, and cypress trees ; 
the air was filled with the song of birds, and a gentle 
breeze bore to us the scent of the spring flowers. 

By and by, we came to a little lawn, shut in by tall 
shrubs ; in the middle a fountain was playing, and 
under the shadow of a chestnut-tree was a marble 
seat supported by griffins ; in one corner stood a 
statue of Venus, framed in green bushes. We had 
left the throng of guests far behind, and the place 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


153 


was very still ; the birds, as if oppressed with its 
beauty, had ceased to sing, and only the fountain 
broke the silence. The unceasing fall of water was 
like a lullaby in its monotony, and the air was 
scented with lilac. 

We sat down. The quiet was delightful ; peace 
and beauty filled one, and I felt a great sense of 
happiness pass into me, like some subtle liquid, per- 
meating every corner of my soul. The smell of the 
lilac was beginning to intoxicate me, and from my 
happiness issued a sentiment of love towards all 
nature ; I felt as though I could stretch out my arms 
and embrace its impalpable spirit. The Venus in 
the corner gained fleshlike tints of green and yellow, 
and seemed to be melting into life ; the lilac came 
across to me in great waves, oppressive, over- 
powering. 

I looked at Claudia. I thought she was affected 
as myself ; she, too, was overwhelmed by the murmur 
of the water, the warmth, and scented air. And I 
was struck again with the wonderful voluptuousness 
of her beauty ; her mouth sensual and moist, the lips 
deep red, and heavy. Her neck was wonderfully 
massive, so white that the veins showed clear and 
blue ; her clinging dress revealed the fullness of her 
form, its undulating curves. She seemed some god- 
dess of sensuality. As I looked at her, I was filled 
with a sudden blind desire to possess her. I stretched 


154 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


out my arms, and she, with a cry of passion, like an 
animal, surrendered herself to my embrace. I drew 
her to me, and kissed her beautiful mouth, sensual 
and moist, her lips deep red, and heavy. . . . 

We sat side by side, looking at the fountain, 
breathing in the scented air. 

‘‘When can I see you.^’' I whispered. 

“To-morrow. . . . After midnight. Come into 
the little street behind my house, and a door will be 
opened to you.’' 

“ Claudia ! ” 

“Good-bye. You must not come back with me 
now ; we have been away so long, people would no- 
tice us. Wait here awhile after me, and then there 
will be no fear. Good-bye.” 

She left me, and I stretched myself on the marble 
seat, looking at the little rings which the drops made 
as they fell on the water. My love for Giulia was 
indeed finished now, — dead, buried, and a stone 
Venus erected over it, as the only sign of its exist- 
ence. I tried to think of a suitable inscription. . . . 
Time could kill the most obstinate love, and a beau- 
tiful woman, with the breezes of spring to help her, 
could carry away even the remembrance. I felt that 
my life was now complete. I had all pleasures imag- 
inable at my beck and call ; good wines to drink, 
good foods to eat, nice clothes ; games, sports, and 
pastimes ; and, last of all, the greatest gift the gods 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


IS5 


can make, a beautiful woman to my youth and 
strength. I had arrived at the summit of wisdom, 
the point aimed^at by the wise man, to take the day 
as it conies, seizing the pleasures, avoiding the dis- 
agreeable, enjoying the present, and giving no thought 
to the past or future. That, I said to myself, is the 
highest wisdom, — never to think ; for the way of 
happiness is to live in one’s senses, as the beasts, and ^ 



like the ox, chewing the cud, use the mind only to 
consider one’s superiority to the rest of mankind. 

I laughed a little, as I thought of my tears and 
cries when Giulia left me. It was not a matter 
worth troubling about ; all I should have said to my- 
self was that I was a fool not to abandon her before 
she abandoned me. Poor Giulia ! I quite frightened 
her in the vehemence of my rage. 

The following evening I would not let Matteo go 
to bed. 

‘‘You must keep me company,” I said ; “I am go- 
ing out at one.” 

“Very well,” he said, “if you will tell me where 
you’re going.” 

“ Ah, no, that is a secret ; but Tm willing to drink 
her health with you.” 

“ Without a name } ” 


“ Yes ! ” 


“To the nameless one, then ; and good luck ! ” 
Then, after a little conversation, he said : 


156 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I am glad you have suffered no more from Giulia 
dair Aste. I was afraid — 

“ Oh, these things pass off. I took your advice, 
and found the best way to console myself was to fall 
in love with somebody else.’’ 

There was a little excitement in going to this mys- 
terious meeting. I wondered whether it was a trap 
arranged by the amiable Ercole to get me in his 
power and rid himself of my unpleasant person. But 
faint heart never won fair lady, and even if he set on 
me with two or three others, I should be able to give 
a reasonable account of myself. 

But there had been nothing to fear. On my way 
home, as the day was breaking, I smiled to myself at 
the matter-of-fact way in which a woman had opened 
the little door, and shown me into the room Claudia 
had told me of. She was evidently well used to her 
business ; she did not even take the trouble to look 
into my face to see who was the newcomer. I won- 
dered how many well-cloaked gallants she had let in 
by the same door ; I did not care if they were half a 
hundred. I did not suppose the beautiful Claudia 
was more virtuous than myself. Suddenly it oc- 
curred to me that I had revenged myself on Ercole 
Piacentini at last ; and the quaint thought, coming 
unexpectedly, made me stop dead and burst into a 
shout of laughter. The thought of that hangdog 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


157 


visage, and the beautiful ornaments I had given him, 
was enough to make a dead man merry. Oh, it was 
a fairer revenge than any I could have dreamed of ! 

But, besides that, I was filled with a great sense 
of pleasure because I was at last free. I felt that if 
some slight chain still bound me to Giulia now, even 
that was broken, and I had recovered my liberty. 
There was no love this time. There was a great de- 
sire for the magnificent sensual creature, with the 
lips deep red and heavy ; but it left my mind free. 
I was now again a complete man ; and this time I 
had no Nemesis to fear. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


And so my life went on for a little while, filled 
with pleasure and amusement. I was contented with 
my lot, and had no wish for change. The time went 
by, and we reached the first week in April. Giro- 
lamo had organised a great ball to celebrate the com- 
pletion of his palace. He had started living in it as 
soon as there were walls and roof, but he had spent 
years on the decorations, taking into his service the 
best artists he could find in Italy ; and now, at last, 
everything was finished. The Orsi had been invited 
with peculiar cordiality, and on the night we betook 
ourselves to the Palace. 

We walked up the stately staircase, a masterpiece 
of architecture, and found ourselves in the enormous 
hall which Girolamo had designed especially for gor- 
geous functions. It was ablaze with light. At the 
further end, on a low stage, led up to by three broad 
steps, under a dais, on high-backed, golden chairs, 
sat Girolamo and Caterina Sforza. Behind them, in 
a semicircle, and on the steps at each side, were the 
ladies of- Caterina's suite, and a number of gentle- 
158 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


159 


men ; at the back, standing like statues, a row of 
men-at-arms. 

“ It is almost regal ! ” said Checco, pursing up his 
lips. 

It is not so poor a thing to be the Lord of Forli,'’ 
answered Matteo. Fuel to the fire ! 

We approached, and Girolamo, as he saw us, rose 
and came down the steps. 

Hail, my Checco ! ” he said, taking both his 
hands. ‘‘Till you had come, the assembly was not 
complete.*’ 

Matteo and I went to the countess. She had sur- 
passed herself this night. Her dress was of cloth of 
silver, shimmering and sparkling. In her hair were 
diamonds, shining like fireflies in the night ; her 
arms, her neck, her Angers, glittered with costly gems. 
I had never seen her look so beautiful, nor so magnif- 
icent. Let them say what they liked, Checco, and 
Matteo, and the rest of them, but she was born to be 
a queen. How strange that this offspring of the 
rough Condottiere and the lewd woman should have 
a majesty such as one imagines of a mighty empress 
descended from countless kings. 

She took the trouble to be particularly gracious to 
us. Me she complimented on some verses she had 
seen, and was very flattering in reference to a pasto- 
ral play which I had arranged. She could not con- 
gratulate my good Matteo on any intellectual achieve- 


i6o 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


ments, but the fame of his amours gave her a subject 
on which she could playfully reproach him. She de- 
manded details, and I left her listening intently to 
some history which Matteo was whispering in her 
ear ; and I knew he was not particular in what he 
said. 

I felt in peculiarly high spirits, and I looked about 
for some one on whom to vent my good humour. I 
caught sight of Giulia. I had seen her once or twice 
since my return to Forli, but had never spoken to 
her. Now I felt sure of myself ; I knew I did not 
care two straws for her, but I thought it would 
please me to have a little revenge. I looked at her 
a moment. I made up my mind ; I went to her and 
bowed most ceremoniously. 

Donna Giulia, behold the moth ! I had used 
the simile before, but not to her, so it did not matter. 

She looked at me undecidedly, not quite knowing 
how to take me. 

‘'May I offer you my arm,’' I said, as blandly as I 
could. 

She smiled a little awkwardly and took it. 

“ How beautiful the countess is to-night ! ” I said. 
“ Every one will fall in love with her.” I knew she 
hated Caterina, a sentiment which the great lady 
returned with vigour. “ I would not dare say it to 
another ; but I know you are never jealous : she is 
indeed like the moon among the stars.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT l6l 

<‘The idea does not seem too new/’ she said, coldly. 

It is all the more comprehensible. I am thinking 
of writing a sonnet on the theme.” 

‘‘ I imagined it had been done before ; but the 
ladies of Forli will doubtless be grateful to you.” 

She was getting cross ; and I knew by experience 
that when she was cross she always wanted to cry. 

‘‘ I am afraid you are angry with me,” I said. 

‘‘No, it is you who are angry with me,” she 
answered, rather tearfully. 

“ I } Why should you think that } ” 

“ You have not forgiven me for — ” 

I wondered whether the conscientious Giorgio had 
had another attack of morality, and ridden off into 
the country. 

“ My dear lady,” I said, with a little laugh, “ I 
assure you that I have forgiven you entirely. After 
all, it was not such a very serious matter.” 

“ No } ” She looked at me with a little surprise. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“You were quite right in what you did. Those 
things have to finish some time or other, and it really 
does not so much matter when.” 

“ I was afraid I had hurt you,” she said, in a low 
voice. 

The scene came to my mind ; the dimly lit room, 
the delicate form lying on the couch, cold and in- 
different, while I was given over to an agony of 


1 62 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

despair. I remembered the glitter of the jewelled 
ring against the white hand. I would have no 
mercy. 

‘‘My dear Giulia, — you will allow me to call you 
Giulia ? ” 

She nodded. 

“ My dear Giulia, I was a little unhappy at first, 
I acknowledge, but one gets over those things so 
quickly, — a bottle of wine and a good sleep : they 
are like bleeding to a fever.’' 

“You were unhappy ? ” 

“ Naturally ; one is always rather put out when 
one is dismissed. One would prefer to have done 
the breaking oneself.” 

“ It was a matter of pride ? ” 

“ I am afraid I must confess to it.” 

“ I did not think so at the time.” 

I laughed. 

“ Oh, that is my excited way of putting things. I 
frightened you ; but it did not really mean any- 
thing.” 

She did not answer. After awhile I said : 

“ You know, when one is young, one should make 
the most of one’s time. Fidelity^ is a stupid virtue, 
unphilosophical and extremely unfashionable.” 

“What do you mean.^” 

“ Simply this ; you did not particularly love me, 
and I did not particularly love you.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


‘‘We had a passing fancy for one another, and, 
that satisfied, there was nothing more to keep us 
together. We should have been very foolish not to 
break the chain ; if you had not done so, I should 
have done so. With your woman's intuition, you 
saw that and forestalled me ! " 

Again she did not answer. 

“ Of course, if you had been in love with me, or I 
with you, it would have been different. But as it 
was — 

“ I see my cousin Violante in the corner there ; 
will you lead me to her } " 

I did as she asked, and as she was bowing me my 
dismissal, I said : 

“We have had a very pleasant talk, and we are 
quite good friends, are we not } " 

“ Quite ! " 

I drew a long breath as I left her. I hoped I had 
hurt ; I hoped I had mutilated her. I wished I could 
have thought of things to say that would have cut 
her to the heart. I was quite indifferent to her, but 
when I remembered, — I hated her. 

I knew every one in Forli by now, and as I turned 
away from Giulia I had no lack of friends with whom 
to talk. The rooms became more crowded every 
moment. The assembly was the most brilliant that 
Forli had ever seen ; and, as the evening wore on. 


164 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


the people became more animated ; a babel of talk 
drowned the music, and the chief topic of conversa- 
tion was the wonderful beauty of Caterina. She 
was bubbling over with high spirits ; no one knew 
what had happened to make her so joyful, for of 
late she had suffered a little from the unpopularity 
of her husband, and a sullen look of anger had re- 
placed the old smiles and graces. But to-night she 
was herself again. Men were standing around talk- 
ing to her, and one heard a shout of laughter from 
them as every now and then she made some witty 
repartee ; and her conversation gained another charm 
from a sort of soldierly bluntness which people re- 
membered in Francesco Sforza, and which she had 
inherited. People also spoke of the cordiality of 
Girolamo towards our Checco ; he walked up and 
down the room with him, arm in arm, talking affec- 
tionately ; it reminded the onlookers of the time 
when they had been as brothers together. Caterina 
occasionally gave them a glance and a little smile of 
approval ; she was evidently well pleased with the 
reconciliation. 

I was making my way through the crowd, watch- 
ing the various people, giving a word here and there, 
or a nod, and I thought that life was really a very 
amusing thing. I felt mightily pleased with myself, 
and I wondered where my good friend Claudia was ; 
I must go and pay her my respects. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 165 

‘^Filippo!'' ^ 

I turned, and saw Scipione Moratini standing by 
his sister, with a number of gentlemen and ladies, 
most of them known to me. 

‘‘Why are you smiling so contentedly.^'* he said. 
“You look as if you had lost a pebble and found a 
diamond in its place." 

“ Perhaps I have ; who knows } " 

At that moment I saw Ercole Piacentini enter the 
room with his wife ; I wondered why they were so 
late. Claudia was at once seized upon by one of her 
admirers, and, leaving her husband, sauntered off on 
the proffered arm. Ercole came up the room on his 
way to the count. His grim visage was contorted 
into an expression of amiability, which sat on him 
with an ill grace. 

“This is indeed a day of rejoicing," I said; “even 
the wicked ogre is trying to look pleasant." 

Giulia gave a little silvery laugh. I thought it 
forced. 

“You have a forgiving spirit, dear friend," she 
said, accenting the last word in recollection of what 
I had said to her. “ A truly Christian disposition ! " 

“ Why } ” I asked, smiling. 

“I admire the way in which you have forgiven 
Ercole for the insults he has offered you ; one does 
not often find a gentleman who so charitably turns 
his other cheek to the smiter ! " 


1 66 ‘ THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

I laughed within myself ; she was trying to be 
even with me. I was glad to see that my darts had 
taken good effect. Scipione interposed, for what his 
sister had said was sufficiently bitter. 

‘‘ Nonsense, Giulia ! he said. “ You know Filippo 
is the last man to forgive his enemies until the breath 
is well out of their bodies ; but circumstances — ’’ 

Giulia pursed up her lips into an expression of 
contempt. 

‘‘ Circumstances. I was surprised, because I re- 
membered the vigour with which Messer Filippo had 
vowed to revenge himself.’' 

“Oh, but Messer Filippo considers that he has 
revenged himself very effectively,” I said. 

“ How ? ” 

“There are more ways of satisfying one’s honour 
than by cutting a hole in a person’s chest.” 

“What do you mean, Filippo.^” said Scipione. 

“ Did you not see as he passed ? ” 

“ Ercole ? What ? ” 

“ Did you not see the adornment of his noble 
head, the elegant pair of horns ? ” 

They looked at me not quite understanding ; then 
I caught sight of Claudia, who was standing close to us. 

“ Ah, I see the diamond I have found in place of 
the pebble I have lost. I pray you excuse me.” 

Then as they saw me walk towards Claudia they 
understood, and I heard a burst of laughter. I took 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


167 


my lady's hand and, bowing deeply, kissed it with 
the greatest fervour. I glanced at Giulia from the 
corner of my eyes and saw her looking down on 
the ground, with a deep blush of anger on her face. 
My heart leapt for joy to think that I had returned 
something of the agony she had caused me. 

The evening grew late, and the guests began to 
go. Checco, as he passed me, asked : 

‘‘ Are you ready ? ” 

“ Yes ! " I said, accompanying him to Girolamo and 
the countess to take our leave. 

‘‘ You are very unkind, Checco," said the countess. 
‘‘ You have not come near me the whole evening." 

“You have been so occupied," he answered. 

“ But I am not now," she replied, smiling. 

“The moment I saw you free I came to you." 

“To say good-bye." 

“ It is very late." 

“ No, surely ; sit down and talk to me." 

Checco did as he was bid, and I, seeing he meant 
to stay longer, sauntered off again in search of friends. 
The conversation between Checco and the countess 
was rather hindered by the continued leave-takings, 
as the people began to go away rapidly, in groups. 
I sat myself down in a window with Matteo, and we 
began comparing notes of our evening ; he told me 
of a new love to whom he had discovered his passion 
for the first time. 


i68 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ Fair wind, foul wind ? I asked, laughing. 

She pretended to be very angry,'’ he said, ‘‘ but 
she allowed me to see that if the worst came to the 
worst she would not permit me to break my heart.” 

I looked out into the room and found that every 
one had gone, except Ercole Piacentini, who was talk- 
ing to the count in undertones. 

I am getting so sleepy,” said Matteo. We went 
forward to the countess, who said, as she saw us 
come : 

Go away, Matteo ! I will not have you drag 
Checco away yet ; we have been trying to talk to one 
another for the last half hour, and now that we have 
the chance at last I refuse to be disturbed.” 

I would not for worlds rob Checco of such pleas- 
ure,” said Matteo ; adding to me, as we retired to our 
window, What a nuisance having to wait for one’s 
cousin while a pretty woman is flirting with him ! ” 

‘‘You have me to talk to, — what more can you 
want ! ” 

“ I don’t want to talk to you at all,” he answered, 
laughing. 

Girolamo was still with Ercole. His mobile eyes 
were moving over the room, hardly ever resting on 
Ercole’s face, but sometimes on us, more often on 
Checco. I wondered whether he were jealous. 

At last Checco got up and said good night. Then 
Girolamo came forward. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 1 69 

^^You are not going yet/’ he said. ‘‘I want to 
speak with you on the subject of those taxes.” 

It was the first time he had mentioned them. 

‘‘It is getting so late,” said Checco, “and these 
good gentlemen are tired.” 

“ They can go home. Really, it is very urgent.” 

Checco hesitated, and looked at us. 

“We will wait for you,” said Matteo. 

Girolamo’s eyes moved about here and there, 
never resting a moment, from Checco to me, from 
me to Matteo, and on to his wife, and then on 
again, with extraordinary rapidity, — it was quite 
terrifying. 

“ One would think you were afraid of leaving 
Checco in our hands,” said the countess, smiling. 

“No,” returned Matteo; “but I look forward to 
having some of your attention now that Checco is 
otherwise occupied. Will you let me languish } ” 

She laughed, and a rapid glance passed between 
her and the count. 

“ I shall be only too pleased,” she said, “ come and 
sit by me, one on each side.” 

The count turned to Ercole. 

“Well, good night, my friend,” he said. “Good 
night ! ” 

Ercole left us, and Girolamo, taking Checco’s arm, 
walked up and down the room, speaking. The 
countess and Matteo commenced a gay conversation. 


1 70 THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 

Although I was close to them I was left alone, and 
I watched the count. His eyes fascinated me, never 
resting, ceaselessly moving. What could be behind 
them ? What could be the man's thoughts that his 
eyes should never rest ? They enveloped the person 
they looked at, — his head, every feature of his face, 
his body, his clothes ; one imagined there was no 
detail they had not caught ; it was as if they ate into 
the very soul of the man. 

The two men tramped up and down, talking ear- 
nestly ; I wondered what they were saying. At last 
Girolamo stopped. 

Ah, well, I must have mercy on you ; I shall tire 
you to death. And you know I do not wish to do 
anything to harm you." 

Checco smiled. 

Whatever difficulty there has been between us, 
Checco, you know that there has never on my part 
been any ill feeling towards you. I have always 
had for you a very sincere and affectionate friend- 
ship." 

And as he said the words an extraordinary change 
came over him. The eyes, the mobile eyes, stopped 
still at last ; for the first time I saw them perfectly 
steady, motionless, like glass ; they looked fixedly 
into Checco's eyes, without winking, and their immo- 
bility was as strange as their perpetual movement, 
and to me it was more terrifying. It was as if 


THE MAKING OP A SAINT. I7I 

Girolamo was trying to see his own image in Checco’s 
soul. 

We bade them farewell, and together issued out 
into the silence of the night ; and I felt that behind 
us the motionless eyes, like glass, were following us 
into the darkness. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

We issued out into the silence of the night. 
There had been a little rain during the day, and 
the air in consequence was fresh and sweet ; the 
light breeze of the spring made one expand one's 
lungs and draw in long breaths. One felt the trees 
bursting out into green leaves, and the buds on the 
plants opening their downy mantles and discovering 
the flower within. Light clouds were wandering 
lazily along the sky, and between them shone out 
a few dim stars. Checco and Matteo walked in 
front, while I lingered, enjoying the spring night ; 
it filled me with a sweet sadness, a reaction from 
the boisterous joy of the evening, and pleasant by 
the contrast. 

When Matteo fell behind and joined me, I re- 
ceived him a little unwillingly, disappointed at the 
interruption of my reverie. 

I asked Checco what the count had said to him 
of the taxes, but he would not tell me ; he said he 
wanted to think about the conversation." 


172 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


173 


I made no answer, and we walked on in silence. 
We had left the piazza, and were going through the 
narrow streets bordered by the tall black houses. It 
was very late, and there was not a soul about ; there 
was no sound but that of our own footsteps, and of 
Checco walking a few yards in front. Between the 
roofs of the houses only a little strip of sky could 
be seen, a single star, and the clouds floating lazily. 
The warm air blew in my face, and filled me with an 
intoxication of melancholy. I thought how sweet it 
would be to fall asleep this night, and never again 
to wake. I was tired, and I wanted the rest of an 
endless sleep. . . . 

Suddenly I was startled by a cry. 

I saw from the shadow of the houses black forms 
spring out on Checco. An arm was raised, and a 
glittering instrument flashed in the darkness. He 
staggered forward. 

Matteo,” he cried. “ Help ! Help ! 

We rushed forward, drawing our swords. There 
was a scuffle, three of us against four of them, a 
flash of swords, a cry from one of the men, as he 
reeled and fell with a wound from Matteo’s sword. 
Then another rush, a little band of men suddenly 
appearing around the corner, and Ercole Piacentini’s 
voice, crying : 

«What is it.?” 

And Matteo’s answer : 


174 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ Help US, Ercole ! I have killed one. Checco is 
stabbed.” 

Ah ! ” a cry from Ercole, and with his men he 
rushed into the fray. 

A few more cries, still the flash of swords, the 
fall of heavy bodies on the stones. 

‘‘They are done for ! ” said Matteo. 

The shouts, the clang of metal, woke up the 
neighbours ; lights were seen at the windows, and 
nightcapped women appeared shrieking ; doors were 
thrown open, and men came out in their shirts, 
sword in hand. 

“ What is it ? What is it ? ” 

“ Checco, are you hurt ? ” asked Matteo. 

“ No ; my coat of mail ! ” 

“Thank God you had it on ! I saw you stagger.” 

“ It was the blow. At first I did not know 
whether I was hurt or not.” 

“ What is it ! What is it .? ” 

The neighbours surrounded us. 

“ They have tried to murder Checco ! Checco 
TOrsi!” 

“ My God ! Is he safe ? ” 

“ Who has done it ? ” 

All eyes were turned to the four men, each one 
lying heaped up on the ground, with the blood 
streaming from his wounds.” 

They are dead ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 1/5 

“Footpads!’' said Ercole ; “they wanted to rob 
you, and did not know you were accompanied.” 

“Footpads! Why should footpads rob me this 
night ? ” said Checco. “ I wish they were not dead.” 

“Look, look!” said a bystander, “there is one 
moving.” 

The words were hardly out of the man’s mouth 
before one of Ercole’s soldiers snatched up his 
dagger and plunged it in the man’s neck, shouting : 

“ Bestia ! ” 

A tremor went through the prostrate body, and 
then it was quite still. 

“You fool!” said Matteo, angrily. “Why did 
you do that ? ” 

“ He is a murderer,” said the soldier. 

“You fool, we wanted him alive, not dead. We 
could have found out who hired him.” 

“What do you mean.?” said Ercole. “They are 
common robbers.” 

“ Here is the guard,” cried some one. 

The guard came, and immediately there was a 
babel of explanation. The captain stepped forward, 
and examined the men lying on the ground. 

“They are all dead,” he said. 

“Take them away,” said Ercole. “Let them be 
put in a church till morning.” 

“ Stop ! ” cried Checco. “ Bring a light, and let us 
see if we can recognise them.” 


iy6 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

“ Not now, it is late. To-morrow you can do what 
you like.'' 

‘‘To-morrow it will be later, Ercole," answered 
Checco. “Bring a light." 

Torches were brought, and thrust into the face of 
each dead man. Every one eagerly scrutinised the 
features, drawn up in their last agony 

“ I don't know him." 

Then to another. 

“No." 

And the other two also were unknown. Checco 
examined the face of the last, and shook his head. 
But a man broke out, excitedly : 

“Ah ! I know him." 

A cry from us all. 

“Who is it.?" 

“ I know him. It is a soldier, one of the count's 
guard." 

“Ah!" said Matteo and Checco, looking at one 
another. “ One of the count's guard ! " 

“That is a lie," said Ercole. “I know them all, 
and I have never seen that face before. It is a foot- 
pad, I tell you." 

“ It is not. I know him well. He is a member of 
the guard." 

“ It is a lie, I tell you." 

“Ercole is doubtless right," said Checco. ' “They 
are common thieves. Let them be taken away. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


177 


They have paid a heavy price for their attempt. 
Good night, my friends. Good night, Ercole, and 
thanks.” 

The guard took hold of the dead men by the head 
and by the feet, and one after another, in single file, 
they bore them off down the dark street. We three 
moved on, the crowd gradually melted away, and 
everything again became dark and silent. 

We walked home side by side without speaking. 
We came to the Palazzo Orsi, entered, walked up- 
stairs, one after the other, into Checco’s study, lights 
were brought, the door closed carefully, and Checco 
turned around to us. 

‘‘Well.?” 

Neither I nor Matteo spoke. Checco clenched his 
fist, and his eyes flashed, as he hissed out : 

“The cur ! ” 

We all knew the attempt was the count’s. . . . 

“By God ! I am glad you are safe,” said Matteo. 

“ What a fool I was to be taken in by his protesta- 
tions ! I ought to have known that he would never 
forget the injury I had done him.” 

“ He planned it well,” said Matteo. 

“Except for the soldier,” I remarked. “He 
should not have chosen any one who could be rec- 
ognised.” 

“ Probably he was the leader. But how well he 
managed everything, keeping us after the others. 


178 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

and nearly persuading Filippo and me to go home 
before you. Caterina was in the plot.'' 

‘‘ I wonder he did not defer the attempt when he 
found you would not be alone," I said to Checco. 

‘‘ He knows I am never alone, and such an oppor- 
tunity would not easily occur again. Perhaps he 
thought they could avoid you two, or even murder 
you as well." 

But Ercole and his men ? " 

“Yes, I have been thinking about them. The 
only explanation I have is that he placed them there 
to cover their flight if they succeeded, and if they 
failed, or could not escape, to kill them." 

“As, in fact, they did. I thought I saw Ercole 
make a sign to the soldier who stabbed the only 
living one." 

“ Possibly. The idea was evidently to destroy all 
witnesses and all opportunity for inquiry." 

“Well," said Matteo, “it will show others that it 
is dangerous to do dirty work for the Riario." 

“ It will indeed ! " 

“ And now, what is to happen } " 

Checco looked at him, but did not reply. 

“ Do you still refuse to do to Girolamo as he has 
tried to do to you ? " 

Checco answered, quietly : 

“ No ! " 

“ Ah ! " we both cried. “ Then you consent ^ " 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 1/9 

I see no reason now for not taking the law into 
my own hands.’* 

‘‘ Assassination ? ” whispered Matteo. 

And Checco answered, boldly : 

‘‘ Assassination ! ” Then, after a pause, ‘‘ It is the 
only way open to me. Do you remember Lorenzo’s 
words ? They have been with me every day, and I 
have considered them very, very deeply : ‘Let Checco 
know that it is only the fool who proposes to himself 
an end, when he cannot or will not attain it ; but the 
man who deserves the name of man marches straight 
to the goal, with clearness of mind and strength of 
will. He looks at things as they are, putting aside 
all vain appearances, and when his intelligence has 
shown him the means to his end, he is a fool if he 
refuses them, and he is a wise man if he uses them 
steadily and unhesitatingly.’ I know the end, and 
I will attain it. I know the means, and I will use 
them steadily, without hesitation.” 

“ I am glad to hear you speak like that at last ! ” 
said Matteo. “We shall have plenty to help us. 
The Moratini will join at once. Jacopo Ronchi and 
Lodovico Pansecchi are so bitter against the count 
they will come with us as soon as they hear you 
have decided to kill the enemy of us all.” 

“You are blind, Matteo. Do you not see what 
we must do ? You mistake the means for the end.” 

“What do you mean.?” 


i8o 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


“ The death of Girolamo is only a means. The 
end is further and higher/' 

Matteo did not speak. 

‘‘ I must keep my hands clean from any base 
motive. It must not seem that I am influenced by 
any personal motive. Nothing must come from me. 
The idea of assassination must come from outside." 

“Whom do you — " 

“ I think Bartolomeo Moratini must propose it, 
and I will yield to his instances." 

“ Good ! then I will go to him." 

“That will not do, either. Neither you nor I must 
be concerned in it. Afterwards it must be clear to 
all minds that the Orsi were influenced solely by the 
public welfare. Do you see ? I will tell you how it 
must be. Filippo must help us. He must go to Bar- 
tolomeo, and from his great affection for us talk of 
our danger, and entreat Bartolomeo to persuade me 
to the assassination. Do you understand, Filippo ? " 

“ Perfectly ! " 

“ Will you do it ? " 

“ I will go to him to-morrow." 

“ Wait till the news of the attempt has spread." 

I smiled at the completeness with which Checco 
had arranged everything ; he had evidently thought 
it all out. How had his scruples disappeared ? 

The blackness of the night was sinking before the 
dawn when we bade one another good night. 


CHAPTER XX. 


I SEEMED to have slept a bare half hour when I 
was awakened by a great noise down-stairs. I got 
up, and looking out of the window saw a crowd 
gathered in the street below ; they were talking 
and gesticulating furiously. Then I remembered 
the occurrence of the night, and I saw that the 
news had spread, and these were citizens come to 
gather details. I went down-stairs, and found the 
courtyard thronged. Immediately I was surrounded 
by anxious people asking for news. Very contrary 
reports had circulated ; some said that Checco had 
been killed outright, others that he had escaped, 
while most asserted that he was wounded. All 
asked for Checco. 

If he is unhurt, why does he not show himself ? 
they asked. 

A servant assured them that he was dressing, and 
would be with them at once. . . . Suddenly there 
was a shout. Checco had appeared at the top of the 
stairs. They rushed towards him, surrounding him, 
with cries of joy ; they seized his hand, they clung to 

i8i 


1 82 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

his legs, some of them touched him all over to see 
that he was indeed unwounded, others kissed the 
lappets of his coat. . . . Bartolomeo Moratini en- 
tered the court with his sons, and the people shrank 
back as he came forward and embraced Checco. 

“ Thank God you are saved ! '' he said. ‘‘ It will be 
an evil day for Forli when anything happens to you.'’ 

The people answered in shouts. But at that 
moment another sound was heard without, — a 
long and heavy murmur. The people surround- 
ing the doorway looked out, and turned in aston- 
ishment to see their neighbours, pointing to the 
street ; the murmur spread. What was it } 

Make way ! Make way ! ” 

A strident voice called out the words, and ushers 
pushed the people aside. A little troop of men 
appeared in the entrance, and, as they sank back, 
there stepped forward the count. The count ! 
Checco started, but, immediately recovering him- 
self, advanced to meet his visitor. Girolamo walked 
up to him, and, taking him in his arms, kissed him 
on the cheeks, and said : 

‘‘ My Checco ! My Checco ! ” 

We who knew, and the others who suspected, 
looked on with astonishment. 

As soon as I heard the terrible news I rushed to 
find you,” said the count. ‘‘Are you safe, — quite 
safe > ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 1 83 

He embraced him again. 

“You cannot think what agony I suffered when I 
heard you were wounded. How glad I am it was 
not true ! O God in heaven, I thank thee for 
my Checco ! 

“You are very kind, my lord,” answered our 
friend. 

“ But it is some consolation that the miscreants 
have met the end which they deserved. We must 
take steps to free the town of all such dangerous 
persons. What will men say of my rule when it is 
known that the peaceful citizen cannot walk home 
at night without danger to his life O Checco, I 
blame myself bitterly.” 

“You have no cause, my lord, but — would it not 
be well to examine the men, to see if they are known 
in Forli 1 Perhaps they have associates.” 

“ Certainly ; the idea was in my mind. Let them 
be laid out in the market-place so that all may see 
them.” 

“Pardon, sir,” said one of his suite, “but they 
were laid in the Church of San Spirito last night, 
and this morning they have disappeared.” 

Matteo and I looked at one another. Checco kept 
his eyes fixed on the count. 

“Disappeared! ” cried the latter, displaying every 
sign of impatience. “ Who is responsible for this } 
Offer a reward for the discovery of their bodies, and 


184 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


of any accomplices. I insist on their being dis- 
covered ! ’’ 

Shortly afterwards he took his leave, after re- 
peatedly kissing Checco, and warmly congratulating 
Matteo and myself on the assistance we had given 
to our friend. To me he said : 

“I regret, Messer Filippo, that you are not a 
Forlivese. I should be proud to have such a 
citizen.'* 

Bartolomeo Moratini was still at the Palazzo Orsi, 
so, seizing my opportunity, I took him by the arm 
and walked with him to the statue gallery, where we 
could talk in peace. 

“What do you think of all this ? " I said. 

He shook his head. 

“ It is the beginning of the end. Of course it is 
clear to all of us that the assassination was ordered 
by the count ; he will persuade nobody of his inno- 
cence by his pretended concern. All the town is 
whispering his name. 

“ Having made a first attempt and failed, he will 
not hesitate to make a second, for if he could forgive 
the injury which he has received from Checco, he 
can never forgive the injury which he himself has 
done him. And next time he will not fail." 

“I am terribly concerned," I said. “You know 
the great affection I have for both the Orsi." 

He stopped and warmly shook my hand. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 1 85 

I cannot let Checco throw away his life in this 
way/’ I said. 

‘‘ What can be done } ” 

^‘Only one thing, and you suggested it. . . . 
Girolamo must be killed.” 

‘‘Ah, but Checco will never consent to that.” 

“I am afraid not,” I said, gravely. “You know 
the delicacy of his conscience.” 

“Yes; and though I think it excessive, I admire 
him for it. In these days it is rare to find a man 
so honest and upright and conscientious as Checco. 
But, Messer Filippo, one must yield to the ideas of 
the age one lives in.” 

“ I, too, am convinced of his noble-mindedness, but 
it will ruin him.” 

“ I am afraid so,” sighed the old man, stroking his 
beard. 

“But he must be saved, in spite of himself. He 
must be brought to see the necessity of killing the 
count.” I spoke as emphatically as I could. 

“ He will never consent.” 

“ He must consent ; and you are the man to make 
him do so. He would not listen to anything that 
Matteo or I said, but for you he has the greatest 
respect. I am sure if any one can influence him, it 
is you.” 

“ I have some power over him, I believe.” 

“ Will you try } Don’t let him suspect that Matteo 


1 86 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

or I have had anything to do with it, or he will not 
listen. It must come solely from you.” 

I will do my best.” 

‘‘Ah, that is good of you. But don't be discour- 
aged by his refusals ; be insistent, for our sake. 
And one thing more, you know his unselfishness ; 
he would not move his hand to save himself, but if 
you showed him that it is for the good of others, he 
could not refuse. Let him think the safety of us all 
depends on him. He is a man you can only move 
by his feeling for others.” 

“ I believe you,” he answered. “ But I will go to 
him, and I will leave no argument unused.” 

“ I am sure that your efforts will be rewarded.” 

Here I showed myself a perfectly wise man, for I 
only prophesied because I knew. 


CHAPTER XXL 


In the evening Bartolomeo returned to the Palace 
and asked for Checco. At his request Matteo and I 
joined him in Checco's study, and, besides, there were 
his two sons, Scipione and Alessandro. Bartolomeo 
was graver than ever. 

‘‘ I have come to you now, Checco, impelled by a 
very strong sense of duty, and I wish to talk with you 
on a matter of the greatest importance/’ 

He cleared his throat. 

‘‘Firstly, are you convinced that the attempt on 
your life was plotted by Girolamo Riario ? ” 

“ I am sorry for his sake, but — I am.” 

“So are we all, absolutely. And what do you in- 
tend to do now ? ” 

“ What can I do ? Nothing ! ” 

“The answer is not nothing. You have some- 
thing to do.” 

“ And that is ” 

“To kill Girolamo before he has time to kill you.” 

Checco started to his feet. 

“ They have been talking to you, — Matteo and 
187 


i88 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Filippo. It is they who have put this in your head. 
I knew it would be suggested again.” 

‘‘ Nothing has given me the idea but the irresist- 
ible force of circumstances.” 

‘‘ Never ! I will never consent to that.” 

“ But he will kill you.” 

I can die ! ” 

“ It will be the ruin of your family. What 
will happen to your wife and children if you are 
dead .? ” 

‘‘ If need be, they can die, too. No one who bears 
the name of Orsi fears death.” 

‘‘You cannot sacrifice their lives in cold blood.” 

“I cannot kill a fellow man in cold blood. Ah, 
my friend, you don’t know what is in me. I am not 
religious ; I have never meddled with priests ; but 
something in my heart tells me not to do this thing. 
I don’t know what it is, — conscience or honour, — 
but it is speaking clearly within me.” 

He had his hand on his heart, and was speaking 
very earnestly. We followed his eyes and saw them 
resting on a crucifix. 

“ No, Bartolomeo,” he said, “ one cannot forget 
God. He is above us always, always watching us ; 
and what should I say to him with the blood of that 
man on my hands } You may say what you like, 
but, believe me, it is best to be honest and straight- 
forward, and to the utmost of one’s ability to carry 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 1 89 

out the doctrines which Christ has left us, and upon 
which he set the seal with the blood of his hands 
and feet and the wound in his side.’’ 

Bartolomeo looked at me as if it were hopeless to 
attempt anything against such sentiments. But I 
signed him energetically to go on ; he hesitated. It 
would be almost tragic if he gave the matter up 
before Checco had time to surrender. However, he 
proceeded : 

‘‘You are a good man, Checco, and I respect you 
deeply for what you have said. But if you will not 
stir to save yourself, think of the others.” 

“ What do you mean } ” said Checco, starting as if 
from a dream.- 

“ Have you the right to sacrifice your fellow men } 
The citizens of Forli depend on you.” 

“Ah, they will easily find another leader. Why, 
you yourself will be of greater assistance to them 
than I have ever been. How much better will they 
be in your strong hands than with me ! ” 

“ No, no ! You are the only man who has power 
here. You could not be replaced.” 

“ But what can I do more than I am doing } I do 
not seek to leave Forli; I will stay here and protect 
myself as much as I can. I cannot do more.” 

“ O Checco, look at their state. It cannot con- 
tinue. They are ground down now ; the count must 
impose these taxes, and what will be their condition 


1 90 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

then ? The people are dying in their misery, and the 
survivors hold happy those who die. How can you 
look on and see all this } And you, you know 
Girolamo will kill you ; it is a matter of time, and 
who can tell how short a time ^ Perhaps even now 
he is forging the weapon of your death.*' 

‘‘ My death ! My death ! " cried Checco. ‘‘ All 
that is nothing ! " 

‘‘ But what will be the lot of the people when you 
are gone } You are the only curb on Riario’s tyranny. 
When you are dead, nothing will keep him back. 
And when once he has eased his path by murder he 
will not fail to do so again. We shall live under 
perpetual terror of the knife. Oh, have mercy on 
your fellow citizens ! ” 

“ My country ! " said Checco. “ My country ! " 

“You cannot resist this. For the good of your 
country, you must lead us on.’* 

“ And if my soul — ** 

“ It is for your country. Ah, Checco, think of 
us all. Not for ourselves only, but for our wives, 
our innocent children, we beg you, we implore. 
Shall we go down on our knees to you } ** 

“ O my God, what shall I do } ** said Checco, 
extremely agitated. 

“ Listen to my father, Checco ! ** said Scipione. 
“ He has right on his side.” 

“ Oh, not you, too ! Do not overwhelm me. I 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, I9I 

feel you are all against me. God help me ! I know 
it is wrong, but I feel myself wavering.’’ 

Do not think of yourself, Checco ; it is for others, 
for our liberty, our lives, our all, that we implore 
you.” 

‘‘You move me terribly. You know how I love 
my country, and how can I resist you, appealing on 
her behalf ! ” 

“ Be brave, Checco ! ” said Matteo. 

“It is the highest thing of all that we ask you,” 
added Bartolomeo. “ Man can do nothing greater. 
We ask you to sacrifice yourself, even your soul, 
maybe, for the good of us all.” 

Checco buried his face in his hands and groaned 
“ O God ! O God ! ” 

Then, with a great sigh, he rose and said : 

“Be it as you will. ... For the good of my 
country ! ” 

“ Ah, thanks, thanks ! ” 

Bartolomeo took him in his arms and kissed him 
on both cheeks. Then, suddenly, Checco tore him- 
self away. 

“ But listen to this, all of you. I have consented, 
and now you must let me speak. I swear that in 
this thing I have no thought of myself. If I alone 
were concerned, I would not move ; I would wait for 
the assassin’s knife calmly. I would even sacrifice 
my wife and children, and God knows how dearly I 


192 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


love them ! I would not stir a finger to save myself. 
And I swear, by all that is most holy to me, that I 
am actuated by no base motive, no ambition, no 
thought of self, no petty revenge. I would willingly 
forgive Girolamo everything. Believe me, my friends, 
I am honest. I swear to you that I am only doing 
this for the welfare of the men I love, for the sake of 
you all, and — for liberty.'' 

They warmly pressed his hands. 

“We know it, Checco, we believe it. You are a 
great and a good man." 

A little later we began to discuss the ways and 
means. Every one had his plan, and to it the others 
had the most conclusive objections. We all talked 
together, each one rather annoyed at the unwilling- 
ness of the others to listen to him, and thinking how 
contemptible their ideas were beside his own. Checco 
sat silent. After awhile Checco spoke : 

“ Will you listen to me ? " 

We held our tongues. 

“First of all," he said, “we must find out who is 
with us, and who is against us." 

“Well," interrupted Scipione, “there are the two 
soldiers, Jacopo Ronchi and Lodovico Pansecchi ; 
they are furious with the count, and said to me a 
long while since that they would willingly kill 
him." 

“ Our six selves and those two make eight." 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


193 


Then there are Pietro Albanese, and Paglianino, 
and Marco Scorsacana/’ 

They were devoted adherents of the house of 
Orsi, and could be trusted to follow the head of the 
family to the bottomless pit. 

Eleven/' counted Bartolomeo. 

‘‘ And then — " 

Each mentioned a name, till the total was brought 
to seventeen. 

Who else ^ " asked Matteo. 

‘‘That is enough," said Checco. “It is as foolish 
to have more than necessary as to have less. Now, 
once more, who are they } " 

The names were repeated. They were all known 
enemies of the count, and most of them related to 
the Orsi. 

“ We had better go to them separately and talk to 
them." 

“ It will want care ! " said Bartolomeo. 

“ Oh, they will not be backward. The first word 
will bring their adhesion." 

“Before that," said Checco, “we must make all 
arrangements. Every point of the execution must 
be arranged, and to them nothing left but the per- 
formance." 

“ Well, my idea is — " 

“ Have the goodness to listen to me," said Checco. 
“You have been talking of committing the deed in 


194 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


church, or when he is out walking. Both of those 
ways are dangerous, for he is always well surrounded, 
and in the former, one has to remember the feeling 
of horror which the people have for sacrilege. Wit- 
ness Galeazzo in Milan and the Medici in Florence. 
One is always wise to respect the prejudices of the 
mob. . . 

‘‘ What do you propose } 

‘‘ After the midday meal the — our friend is in 
the habit of retiring to a private room while his 
servants dine. He is then almost alone. I have 
often thought it would be an excellent opportunity 
for an assassin ; I did not know it would be myself 
to take the opportunity.” 

He paused and smiled at the pleasantness of the 
irony. 

“Afterwards we shall raise the town, and it is well 
that as many of our partisans as possible be present. 
The best day for that is a market-day, when they 
will come in, and we shall have no need of specially 
summoning them, and thus giving rise to suspicion.” 

Checco looked at us to see what we thought of 
his idea; then, as if from an afterthought, he added: 

“ Of course, this is all on the spur of the moment.” 

It was well he said that, for I was thinking how 
elaborately everything was planned. I wondered 
how long he had the scheme in his head. 

We found nothing to say against it. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


195 


And who will do the actual deed ? ’’ 

I will ! '' answered Checco, quietly. 

You ! '' 

‘‘Yes, alone. I will tell you your parts later.'’ 

“ And when ? " 

“Next Saturday. That is the first market-day." 

“ So soon ! " We were all surprised ; it was only 
five days off, it gave us very little time to think. It 
was terribly near. Alessandro voiced our feelings. 

“ Does that give us enough time ? Why not 
Saturday week ? There are many needful prepara- 
tions." 

“There are no needful preparations. You have 
your swords ready ; the others can be warned in a 
few hours. I wish it were to-morrow." 

“ It is — it is very soon." 

“ There is less danger of our courage failing 
meanwhile. We have our goal before us, and we 
must go to it straight, with clearness of mind and 
strength of will." 

There was nothing more to be said. As we 
separated, one of the Moratini asked : 

“About the others, shall we — " 

“You can leave everything to me. I take all on 
my hands. Will you three come here to play a 
game of chess on Friday night, at ten ? Our affairs 
will occupy us so that we shall not meet in the 
interval. I recommend you to go about as much as 


196 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

possible, and let yourselves be seen in all assemblies 
and parties. ...” 

Checco was taking his captaincy in earnest. He 
would allow no contradiction, and no swerving from 
the path he had marked out, — on the spur of the 
moment. 

We had four days in which to make merry and 
gather the roses ; after that, who knows ? We 
might be dangling from the Palace windows in an 
even line, suspended by elegant hempen ropes ; 
or our heads might be decorating spearheads, and 
our bodies God knows where. I suggested these 
thoughts to Matteo, but I found him singularly 
ungrateful. Still, he agreed with me that we had 
better make the most of our time, and, as it ac- 
corded with Checco' s wishes, we were able to go 
to the devil from a sense of duty. I am sure 
Claudia never had a lover more ardent than myself 
during these four days ; but, added to my duties 
towards that beautiful creature, were routs and 
banquets, drinking-parties, gaming-parties, where I 
plunged heavily, in my uncertainty of the future, 
and consequently won a fortune. Checco had taken 
on his own shoulders all preparations, so that Matteo 
and I had nothing to do but to enjoy ourselves ; and 
that we did. The only sign I had that Checco had 
been working was a look of intelligence given me by 
one or two of those whose names had been men- 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 1 97 

tioned in Checco's study. Jacopo Ronchi, taking 
leave of me on the Thursday night, said : 

‘‘We shall meet to-morrow.” 

“You are coming to play chess, I think,” I said, 
smiling. 

When, at the appointed hour, Matteo and I found 
ourselves again in Checco's study, we were both 
rather anxious and nervous. My heart was beating 
quite painfully, and I could not restrain my impa- 
tience. I wished the others would come. Gradually 
they made their way in, and we shook hands quietly, 
rather mysteriously, with an air of schoolboys meet- 
ing together in the dark to eat stolen fruit. It 
might have been comic, if our mind's eye had not 
presented us with so vivid a picture of a halter. 

Checco began to speak in a low voice, slightly 
trembling ; his emotion was real enough this time, 
and he did all he could to conceal it. 

“ My very dear and faithful fellow citizens,” he be- 
gan, “ it appears that to be born in Forli, and to live 
in it in our times, is the very greatest misfortune with 
which one can be born or with which one can live.” 

I never heard such silence as that among the 
listeners. It was awful. Checco's voice sank lower 
and lower, but yet every word could be distinctly 
heard. The tremor was increasing. 

“ Is it necessary that birth and life here should be 
the birth and life of slaves } Our glorious ancestors 


1 93 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

never submitted to this terrible misfortune. They 
were free, and in their freedom they found life. But 
this is a living death. . . 

He recounted the various acts of tyranny which 
had made the count hateful to his subjects, and he 
insisted on the insecurity in which they lived. 

‘‘You all know the grievous wrongs I have suf- 
fered at the hands of the man whom I helped to 
place on the throne. But these wrongs I freely for- 
give. I am filled only with devotion to my country 
and’ love to my fellow men. If you others have pri- 
vate grievances, I implore you to put them aside, and 
think only that you are the liberators from oppres- 
sion of all those you love and cherish. Gather up 
to your hearts the spirit of Brutus, when, for the 
sake of Freedom, he killed the man whom above all 
others he loved.” 

He gave them the details of the plot ; told them 
what he would do himself, and what they should do, 
and finally dismissed them. 

“Pray to God to-night,” he said, earnestly, “that 
he will look with favour upon the work which we 
have set ourselves, and implore him to judge us 
by the purity of our intentions rather than by the 
actions which, in the imperfection of our knowledge, 
seem to us the only means to our end.” 

We made the sign of the cross, and retired as 
silently as we had come. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


My sleep was troubled, and when I awoke the 
next morning the sun had only just risen. 

It was Saturday, the 14th of April, 1488. 

I went to my window and saw a cloudless sky, 
brilliantly yellow over in the east, and elsewhere 
liquid and white, hardening gradually into blue. 
The rays came dancing into my room, and in them 
incessantly whirled countless atoms of dust. Through 
the open window blew the spring wind, laden with the 
scents of the country, the blossoms of the fruit-trees, 
the primroses, and violets. I had never felt so young 
and strong and healthy. What could one not do on 
such a day as this ! I went into Matteo’s room, and 
found him sleeping as calmly as if this were an 
ordinary day like any other. 

‘‘ Rise, thou sluggard ! ” I cried. 

In a few minutes we were both ready, and we 
went to Checco. We found him seated at a table 
polishing a dagger. 

“ Do you remember, in Tacitus,” he said, smiling 
pleasantly, '^how the plot against Nero was dis- 
199 


200 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


covered by one of the conspirators giving his dagger 
to his freedman to sharpen ? Whereupon the freed- 
man became suspicious, and warned the Emperor.’' 

The philosophers tell us to rise on the mistakes 
of others,” I remarked, in the same tone. 

“ One reason for my affection towards you, 
Filippo,” he answered, ‘^is that you have nice moral 
sentiments, and a pleasant moral way of looking at 
things.” 

He held out his dagger and looked at it. The 
blade was beautifully damaskeened, the hilt be- 
jewelled. 

‘‘ Look,” he said, showing me the excellence of 
the steel, and pointing out the maker’s name. Then, 
meditatively, have been wondering what sort of 
blow would be most effective if one wanted to kill 
a man.” 

‘‘You can get most force,” said Matteo, “by 
bringing the dagger down from above your head, — 
thus.” 

“ Yes ; but then you may strike the ribs, in which 
case you would not seriously injure your friend.” 

“You can hit him in the neck.” 

“The space is too small, and the chin may get 
in the way. On the other hand, a wound in the 
large vessels of that region is almost immediately 
fatal.” 

“It is an interesting subject,” I said. “My 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


201 


opinion is, that the best of all blows is an underhand 
one, ripping up the stomach.” 

I took the dagger and showed him what I meant. 

‘‘ There are no hindrances in the way of bones ; 
it is simple and certainly fatal.” 

^‘Yes,” said Checco, ‘‘but not immediately! My 
impression is that the best way is between the 
shoulders. Then you strike from the back, and 
your victim can see no uplifted hand to warn him, 
and, if he is very quick, enable him to ward the 
blow.” 

“ It is largely a matter of taste,” I answered, 
shrugging my shoulders. “ In these things a man 
has to judge for himself according to his own idio- 
syncrasies.” 

After a little more conversation I proposed to 
Matteo that we should go out to the market-place 
and see the people. 

“Yes, do!” said Checco, “and I will go and see 
my father.” 

As we walked along, Matteo told me that Checco 
had tried to persuade his father to go away for a 
while, but that he had refused, as also had his wife. 
I had seen old Orso d’Orsi once or twice ; he was 
very weak and decrepit ; he never came down-stairs, 
but stayed in his own rooms all day, by the fireside, 
playing with his grandchildren. Checco was in the 
habit of going to see him every day, morning and 


202 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


evening, but to the rest of us it was as if he did not 
exist. Checco was complete master of everything. 

The market-place was full of people. Booths were 
erected in rows, and on the tables the peasant women 
had displayed their wares : vegetables and flowers, 
chickens, ducks, and all kinds of domestic fowls, 
milk, butter, eggs ; and other booths with meat and 
oil and candles. And the sellers were a joyful crew, 
decked out with red and yellow handkerchiefs, great 
chains of gold around their necks, and spotless head- 
dresses ; they were standing behind their tables, with 
a scale on one hand and a little basin full of coppers 
on the other, crying out to one another, bargaining, 
shouting and joking, laughing, quarrelling. Then 
there were the purchasers, who walked along looking 
at the goods, picking up things and pinching them, 
smelling them, tasting them, examining them from 
every point of view. And the sellers of tokens and 
amulets and charms passed through the crowd crying 
out their wares, elbowing, cursing when some one 
knocked against them. Gliding in and out, between 
people’s legs, under the barrow wheels, behind the 
booths, were countless urchins, chasing one another 
through the crowd, unmindful of kicks and cuffs, 
pouncing on any booth of which the proprietor had 
turned his back, seizing the first thing they could lay 
hands on, and scampering off with all their might. 
And there was a conjurer with a gaping crowd, a 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


203 


quack extracting teeth, a ballad singer. Everywhere 
was noise and bustle and life. 

One would not say on the first glance that these 
people were miserably oppressed slaves,'' I said, 
maliciously. 

‘‘You must look beneath the surface," replied 
Matteo, who had begun to take a very serious view 
of things in general. I used to tell him that he 
would have a call some day and end up as a shaven 
monk. 

“ Let us amuse ourselves," I said, taking Matteo by 
the arm, and dragging him along in search of prey. 
We fixed on a seller of cheap jewelry, — a huge 
woman, with a treble chin and a red face dripping 
with perspiration. We felt quite sorry for her, and 
went to console her. 

“ It is a very cold day," I remarked to her, where- 
upon she bulged out her cheeks and blew a blast that 
nearly carried me away. 

She took up a necklace of beads and offered it to 
Matteo for his lady-love. We began to bargain, 
offering her just a little lower than she asked, and 
then, as she showed signs of coming down, made her 
a final offer a little lower still. At last she seized a 
broom and attacked us, so that we had to fly precipi- 
tately. 

I had never felt in such high spirits. I offered to 
race Matteo in every way he liked, — riding, running. 


204 MAKING OF A SAINT. 

and walking, — but he refused, brutally telling me 
that I was frivolous. Then we went home. I found 
that Checco had just been hearing mass, and he was 
as solemn and silent as a hangman. I went about 
lamenting that I could get no one to talk to me, and 
at last took refuge with the children, who permitted 
me to join in their games, so that, at ‘‘ hide-and-seek 
and ‘‘ blind man’s buff,” I thoroughly amused myself 
till dinner-time. We ate together, and I tried not to 
be silenced, talking the greatest nonsense I could 
think of ; but the others sat like owls and did not 
listen, so that I, too, began to feel depressed. . . . 

The frowns of the others infected me, and the dark 
pictures that were before their eyes appeared to mine ; 
my words failed me, and we all three sat gloomily. 
I had started with an excellent appetite, but again 
the others influenced me, and I could not eat. We 
toyed with our food, wishing the dinner over. I 
moved about restlessly, but Checco was quite still, 
leaning his face on his hand, occasionally raising his 
eyes and fixing them on Matteo or me. One of the 
servants dropped some plates ; we all started at the 
sound, and Checco uttered an oath ; I had never 
heard him swear before. He was so pale I wondered 
if he were nervous. I asked the time ; still two hours 
before we could start. How long would they take to 
pass ! I had been longing to finish dinner, so that I 
might get up and go away. I felt an urgent need for 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


205 


walking, but when the meal was over a heaviness 
came to my legs and I could do nothing but sit and 
look at the other two. Matteo filled his tankard 
and emptied it several times, but after awhile, as he 
reached over for the wine, he saw Checco’s eyes 
fixed on the flagon, with a frown on his forehead, 
and the curious raising of one corner of the mouth, 
which was a sign he was displeased. Matteo with- 
drew his hand and pushed his mug away; it rolled 
over and fell on the floor. We heard the church 
bell strike the hour ; it was three o’clock. Would 
it never be time ! We sat on and on. At last 
Checco rose, and began walking up and down the 
room. He called for his children. They came, and 
he began talking to them in a husky voice, so that 
they could scarcely understand him. Then, as if 
frightened of himself, he took them in his arms, one 
after the other, and kissed them convulsively, passion- 
ately, as one kisses a woman ; and he told them to 
go. He stifled a sob. We sat on and on. I counted 
the minutes. I had never lived so long before. It 
was awful. . . . 

At last ! 

It was half past three ; we got up and took our 
hats. 

‘‘ Now, my friends ! ” said Checco, drawing a breath 
of relief, ‘‘our worst troubles are over.” 

We followed him out of the house. I noticed the 


206 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


jewelled hilt of his dagger, and every now and then I 
saw him put his hand to it to see that it was really 
there. We passed along the streets, saluted by the 
people. A beggar stopped us, and Checco threw him 
a piece of gold. 

‘‘ God bless you ! ” said the man. 

And Checco thanked him, fervently. 

We walked along the narrow streets in the shade, 
but as we turned a corner the sun came full on our 
faces. Checco stopped a moment and opened his 
arms, as if to receive the sunbeams in his embrace, 
and, turning to us with a smile, he said : 

‘‘ A good omen ! 

A few more steps brought us to the piazza. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Among the members of the count’s household 
was Fabrizio Tornielli, a cousin of the Orsi on the 
mother’s side. Checco had told him that he wished 
to talk with Girolamo about the money he owed 
him, and thought the best opportunity would be 
when the count was alone after the meal which 
he was in the habit of taking at three. But as he 
was very anxious to find the count entirely by 
himself, he begged his cousin to make him a sign 
when the time came. . . . Fabrizio had agreed, 
and we had arranged to stroll about the piazza till 
we saw him. We came across our friends ; to me 
they looked different from every one else. I won- 
dered that people as they passed did not stop them 
and ask what was disturbing them. 

At last, one of the Palace windows was opened, 
and we saw Fabrizio Tornielli standing in it, looking 
down on the piazza. Our opportunity had come. 
My heart beat so violently against my chest that I 
had to put my hand to it. Besides Matteo and my- 
self, Marco Scorsacana, Lodovico Pansecchi, and 


207 


2o8 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Scipione Moratini were to accompany Checco into 
the Palace. Checco took my arm and we walked 
slowly up the steps, while the others followed on 
our heels. The head of the Orsi had a key of gold, 
that is to say, he was admitted to the ruler's presence 
whenever he presented himself, and without formality. 
The guard at the door saluted as we passed, making 
no question. We ascended to Girolamo’s private 
apartments, and were admitted by a servant. We 
found ourselves in an anteroom, in one wall of which 
was a large doorway, closed by curtains. . . . 

‘‘ Wait for me here,” said Checco. “ I will go in 
to the count.” 

The servant raised the curtain ; Checco entered, 
and the curtain fell back behind him. 

Girolamo was alone, leaning against the sill of an 
open window. He stretched out his hand kindly. 

‘‘ Ah, Checco, how goes it ? ” 

Well ; and you ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, I am always well when I get among my 
nymphs.” 

He waved his hand to the frescoes on the walls. 
They were the work of a celebrated artist, and rep- 
resented nymphs sporting, bathing, weaving gar- 
lands, and offering sacrifice to Pan ; the room had 
been christened the Chamber of the Nymphs. 

Girolamo looked around, with a contented smile. 

‘‘ I am glad everything is finished at last,” he said. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


209 


Eight years ago the stones with which the house 
is built had not been hewn out of the rock, and 
now every wall is painted, everything is carved and 
decorated, and I can sit down and say, ‘ It is 
finished.’ ” 

‘‘ It is indeed a work to be proud of,” said Checco. 

‘‘You don’t know how I have looked forward to 
this, Checco. Until now I have always lived in 
houses which others had built, and decorated, and 
lived in ; but this one has grown up out of my own 
head ; I have watched every detail of its construction, 
and I feel it mine as I have never felt anything mine 
before.” 

He paused a minute, looking at the room. 

“ Sometimes I think I have lost in its completion, 
for it gave me many pleasant hours to watch the 
progress. The hammer of the carpenter, the click 
of the trowel on the brick, were music to my ears. 
There is always a melancholy in everything that 
is finished ; with a house, the moment of its comple- 
tion is the commencement of its decay. Who knows 
how long it will be before these pictures have moul- 
dered off the walls, and the very walls themselves 
are crumbling to dust ? ” 

“As long as your family reigns in Forli your pal- 
ace will preserve its splendour.” 

“ Yes ; and it seems to me that as the family will 
preserve the house, so the house will preserve the 


210 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


family. I feel myself firmer and more settled in 
Forli ; this seems like a rock to which my fortunes 
can cling. But I am full of hope. I am still young 
and strong. I have a good thirty years of life before 
me, and what can one not do in thirty years ? And 
then, Checco, my children ! What a proud day it 
will be for me when I can take my son by the hand 
and say to him, ‘You are a full-grown man, and you 
are capable of taking up the sceptre when death 
takes it from my hand.’ And it will be a good 
present I shall leave him. My head is full of plans. 
Forli shall be rich and strong, and its prince shall 
not need to fear his neighbours ; and the Pope and 
Florence shall be glad of his friendship.” 

He looked into space, as if he saw the future. 

“ But, meanwhile, I am going to enjoy life. I 
have a wife whom I love, a house to be proud of, two 
faithful cities. What more can I want 

“You are a fortunate man,” said Checco. 

There was a short silence. Checco looked at him 
steadily. The count turned away, and Checco put 
his hand to his dagger. He followed him. As he 
was approaching, the count turned again, with a jewel 
that he had just taken from the window-sill. 

“ I was looking at this stone when you came,” he 
said. “ Bonifazio has brought it from Milan, but I 
am afraid I cannot afford it. It is very tempting.” 

He handed it to Checco to look at. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


21 I 


‘‘ I don't think it is better than the one you have 
on your neck," he said, pointing to the jewel, which 
was set in a medallion of gold, hanging from a heavy 
chain. 

‘^Oh, yes," said Girolamo. ‘^It is much finer. 
Look at the two together." 

Checco approached the stone he held in his hand 
to the other, and, as he did so, with his other fingers 
pressed against the count's chest. He wanted to 
see whether by any chance he wore a coat of mail ; 
he did not mean to make the same mistake as the 
count. . . . He thought there was nothing ; but he 
wished to make quite sure. 

I think you are right," he said, “but the setting 
shows off the other, so that at first sight it seems 
more brilliant. And no wonder, for the chain is a 
masterpiece." 

He took it up, as if to look at it, and, as he did so, 
put his hand on the count's shoulder. He was cer- 
tain now. 

“ Yes," said Girolamo, “ that was made for me by 
the best goldsmith in Rome. It is really a work of 
art." 

“ Here is your stone," said Checco, handing it to 
him, but awkwardly, so that when Girolamo wanted 
to take it, it fell between their hands. Instinctively 
he bent down to catch it. In a moment Checco 
drew his dagger, and buried it in the count's back. 


212 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


He staggered forward, and fell in a heap on his 
face. 

“ O God ! he cried, I am killed.” 

It was the first thing we had heard outside. We 
heard the cry, the heavy fall. The servant rushed 
to the curtain. 

“ They are killing my master ! ” he cried. 

‘‘ Be quiet, you fool ! ” I said, seizing his head 
from behind, and, with my hands on his mouth, drag- 
ging him backwards. At the same moment Matteo 
drew his dagger, and pierced the man’s heart. He 
gave a convulsive leap into the air, and then, as he 
fell, I pushed him so that he rolled to one side. 

Immediately afterward a curtain was lifted, and 
Checco appeared, leaning against the door-post. He 
was as pale as death, and trembling violently. He 
stood silent for a moment, open-mouthed, so that I 
thought he was about to faint ; then, with an effort, 
he said, in a hoarse, broken voice : 

‘‘ Gentlemen, we are free ! ” 

A cry burst from us : 

‘‘ Liberty ! ” 

Lodovico Pansecchi asked : 

Is he dead ? ” 

A visible shudder passed through Checco, as if he 
had been struck by an icy wind. He staggered to a 
chair and groaned: 

O God ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


213 


I will go and see/' said Pansecchi, lifting the 
curtain and entering. 

We stood still, waiting for him. We heard a 
heavy sound, and, as he appeared, he said : 

“There is no doubt now." 

There was blood on his hands. Going up to 
Checco, he handed him the jewelled dagger. 

“Take this. It will be more use to you than 
where you left it." 

Checco turned away in disgust. 

“ Here, take mine," said Matteo. “ I will take 
yours. It will bring me good luck." 

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when a 
step was heard outside. Scipione looked out cau- 
tiously. 

“Andrea Framonti," he whispered. 

“ Good luck, indeed ! " said Matteo. 

It was the captain of the guard. He was in the 
habit of coming every day about this hour to receive 
the password from the count. We had forgotten 
him. He entered. 

“ Good day to you, gentlemen ! Are you waiting 
to see the count } " 

He caught sight of the corpse lying against the 
wall. 

“ Good God ! what is this } What is — " 

He looked at us, and stopped suddenly. We had 
surrounded him. 


214 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


^‘Treason ! '' he cried. ‘‘ Where is the count ? 

He looked behind him ; Scipione and Matteo barred 
the door. 

‘‘Treason ! ” he shouted, drawing his sword. 

At the same moment we drew ours and rushed for 
him. He parried a few of our blows, but we were 
too many, and he fell, pierced with a dozen wounds. 

The sight of the fray had a magical effect on 
Checco. We saw him standing up, drawn to his 
full height, his cheeks aflame, his eyes flashing. 

“ Good, my friends, good ! Luck is on our side,” 
he said. “ Now we must look alive and work. Give 
me my dagger, Matteo ; it is sacred, now. It has 
been christened in blood with the name of Liberty. 
Liberty, my friends. Liberty ! ” 

We flourished our swords, and shouted : 

“ Liberty ! ” 

“ Now, you, Filippo, take Lodovico Pansecchi and 
Marco, and go to the apartments of the countess ; 
tell her that she and her children are prisoners, and 
let no one enter or leave. Do this at any cost. . . . 
The rest of us will go out and rouse the people. I 
have twenty servants armed whom I told to wait in 
the piazza ; they will come and guard the Palace and 
give you any help you need. Come ! ” 

I did not know the way to the countess’s chamber, 
but Marco had been a special favourite, and knew 
well the ins and outs of the Palace. He guided me 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 21$ 

to the door, where we waited. In a few minutes we 
heard cries in the piazza, and shouts of Liberty.’' 
There came a tramp of feet up the stairs. It was 
Checco’s armed servants. Some of them appeared 
where we were. I sent Marco to lead the others. 

‘‘ Clear the Palace of all the servants. Drive them 
out into the piazza, and if any one resists, kill him.” 

Marco nodded, and went off. The door off the 
countess’s apartments was opened, and a lady said : 

‘‘ What is this noise ? ” 

But immediately she saw us, she gave a shriek and 
ran back. Then, leaving two men to guard the door, 
I entered with Pansecchi and the rest. The countess 
came forward. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” she said, angrily. 

Who are you ? What are these men ? ” 

Madam,” I said, ‘‘the count, your husband, is 
dead, and I have been sent to take you prisoner.” 

The women began to weep and wail, but the 
countess did not move a muscle. She appeared 
indifferent to my intelligence. 

“You,” I said, pointing to the ladies and women 
servants, “ you are to leave the Palace at once. The 
countess will be so good as to remain here with her 
children.” 

Then I asked where the children were. The 
women looked at their mistress, who said, shortly : 

“ Bring them ! ” 


2i6 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


I signed to Pansecchi, who accompanied one of the 
ladies out of the room, and reappeared with the three 
little children. 

‘^Now, madam, I said, “will you dismiss these 
ladies ? ” 

She looked at me a moment, hesitating. The cries 
from the piazza were growing greater ; it was becom- 
ing a roar that mounted to the Palace windows. 

“You can leave me,” she said. 

They broke again into shrieks and cries, and 
seemed disinclined to obey the order. I had no 
tiine to waste. 

“ If you do not go at once, I shall have you thrown 
out ! ” 

The countess stamped her foot. 

“ Go, when I tell you ! Go ! ” she said. “ I want 
no crying and screaming.” 

They moved to the door like a flock of sheep, 
trampling on one another, bemoaning their fate. 
At last I had the room free. 

“ Madam,” I said, “you must allow two soldiers to 
remain in the room.” 

I locked the two doors of the chamber, mounted 
a guard outside each, and left her. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


I WENT out into the piazza. It was full of men, 
but where was the enthusiasm we had expected, the 
tumult, the shouts of joy.? Was not the tyrant 
dead .? But they stood there dismayed, confounded, 
like sheep. . . . And was not the tyrant dead ? I 
saw partisans of Checco rushing through the crowd, 
with cries of ‘‘ Death to all tyrants,’' and Liberty, 
liberty ! ” but the people did not move. Here and 
there were men mounted on barrows, haranguing the 
people, throwing out words of fire ; but the wind was 
still, and they did not spread. . . . Some of the 
younger ones were talking excitedly, but the mer- 
chants kept calm, seeming afraid. They asked what 
was to happen now, — what Checco would do ? Some 
suggested that the town should be offered to the 
Pope ; others talked of Lodovico Sforza and the ven- 
geance he would bring from Milan. 

I caught sight of Alessandro Moratini. 

What news ? What news ? ” 

“ O God, I don’t know ! ” he said, with an expres- 
sion of agony. ‘‘They won’t move. I thought they 
217 


2i8 


THE MAKim OF A SAINT. 


would rise up and take the work out of our hands. 
But they are as dull as stones.” 

‘‘And the others.^” I asked. 

“ They are going through the town trying to 
rouse the people. God knows what success they 
will have ! ” 

At that moment there was a stir at one end of the 
square, and a crowd of mechanics surged in, headed 
by a gigantic butcher, flourishing a great meat-axe. 
They were crying, “ Liberty ! ” Matteo went towards 
them, and began to address them, but the butcher 
interrupted him, and shouted coarse words of en- 
thusiasm, at which they all yelled with applause. 

Checco came on the scene, accompanied by his 
servants. A small crowd followed, crying : 

“ Bravo, Checco ! bravo ! ” 

As soon as the mechanics saw him, they rushed 
towards him, surrounding him with cries and cheers. 
. . . The square was growing fuller every moment ; 
the shops had been closed, and from all quarters 
came swarming artisans and apprentices. I made 
my way to Checco, and whispered to him : 

“ The people ! Fire them, and the rest will 
follow.” 

“ A leader of rabble ! ” 

“ Never mind,” I said. “ Make use of them. 
Give way to them now, and they will do your 
will. Give them the body of the count ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 219 

He looked at me, then nodded, and whispered : 

‘‘ Quickly ! 

I ran to the Palace, and told Marco Scorsacana 
what I had come for. We went into the Hall of the 
Nymphs ; the body was lying on its face, almost 
doubled up, and the floor was stained with a hor- 
rible stream of blood ; in the back were two wounds. 
Lodovico had indeed made sure that the count was 
safe. . . . We caught hold of the body — it was not 
yet cold — and dragged it to the window. With 
difficulty we lifted it on to the sill. 

‘‘ Here is your enemy ! ” I cried. 

Then hoisting him, we pushed him out, and he fell 
on the stones with a great, dull thud. A mighty 
shout burst from the mob as they rushed at the 
body. One man tore the chain off his neck, but as 
he was running away with it, another snatched at it. 
In the struggle it broke, and one got away with the 
chain, the other with the jewel. Then, with cries 
of hate, they set on the corpse. They kicked him, 
and slapped his face, and spat on him. The rings 
were wrenched off his Angers, his coat was torn 
away ; they took his shoes, his hose ; in less then 
a minute everything had been robbed, and he was 
lying naked, naked as when he was born. They had 
no mercy, those people ; they began to laugh and 
jeer, and make foul jokes about his nakedness. 

The piazza was thronged, and every moment 


220 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


people entered ; the women of the lower classes 
had come, joining their shrill cries to the shouts 
of the men. The noise was stupendous, and above 
all rang the cries of Liberty and Death. 

‘‘ The countess ! The countess ! ” 

It became the general cry, drowning the others, 
and from all quarters. 

‘‘ Where is the countess Bring her out. Death 
to the countess ! 

A cry went up that she was in the Palace, and the 
shout became : 

‘‘ To the Palace ! To the Palace ! ” 

Checco said to us : 

“ We must save her. If they get hold of her she 
will be torn to pieces. Let her be taken to my 
house.” 

Matteo and Pansecchi took all the soldiers they 
could, and entered the Palace. In a few minutes 
they appeared with Caterina and her children ; they 
had surrounded her, and were walking with drawn 
swords. 

A yell broke from these thousands of throats, and 
they surged towards the little band. Checco shouted 
out to them to let her go in peace, and they held 
back a little ; but, as she passed, they hissed and 
cursed, and called her foul names. Caterina walked 
proudly, neither turning to the right nor to the left, 
no sign of terror on her face, not even a pallid cheek. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


221 


She might have been traversing the piazza amidst 
the homage of her people. Suddenly it occurred to 
a man that she had jewels concealed on her. He 
pushed through the guards, and put his hand to her 
bosom. She lifted her hand, and hit him in the face. 
A cry of rage broke from the populace, and they 
made a rush. Matteo and his men stopped, closing 
together, and he said : 

By God ! I swear I will kill any man who comes 
within my reach.’' 

They shrank back frightened, and, taking advan- 
tage of this, the little band hurried out of the 
piazza. 

Then the people looked at one another, waiting 
for something to do, not knowing where to begin. 
Their eyes were beginning to flame, and their hands 
to itch for destruction. Checco saw their feeling, 
and at once pointed to the Palace. 

“ There are the fruits of your labours, your money, 
your jewels, your taxes. Go and take back your own. 
There is the Palace. We give you the Palace.” 

They broke into a cheer, a rush was made, and 
they struggled in by the great doors, fighting their 
way up the stairs in search of plunder, dispersing 
through the splendid rooms. . . . 

Checco looked at them disappearing through the 
gateway. 

‘‘ Now we have them at last.” 


222 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


In a few minutes the stream at the Palace gates 
became double, for it consisted of those coming out 
as well as of those going in. The confusion became 
greater and greater, and the rival bands elbowed, and 
struggled, and fought. The windows were burst 
open and things thrown out, — coverlets, linen, cur- 
tains, gorgeous silks. Oriental brocades, satins, — 
and the women stood below to catch them. Some- 
times there was a struggle for possession, but the 
objects were poured out so fast that every one could 
be satisfied. Through the doors men could be seen 
coming with their arms full, their pockets bulging, 
and handing their plunder to their wives to take 
home, while they themselves rushed in again. All 
the little things were taken first, and then it was the 
turn of the furniture. People came out with chairs 
or coffers on their heads, bearing them away quickly, 
lest their claim should be disputed. Sometimes the 
entrance was stopped by two or three men coming 
out with a heavy chest, or with the pieces of a bed- 
stead. Then the shouting, and pushing, and confu- 
sion were worse than ever. . . . Even the furniture 
gave out under the keen hands, and, looking around, 
they saw that the walls and floors were bare. But 
there was still something for them. They made for 
the doors and wrenched them away. From the piazza 
we saw men tear out the window-frames, — even 
the hinges were taken, — and they streamed out of 





“IT WAS EMPTY BUT FOR A FEW RAPACIOUS MEN, WHO 
WERE WANDERING ABOUT, LIKE SCAVENGERS.” 







THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


223 


the Palace heavily laden, their hands bloody from 
the work of destruction. 

All over the town the bells were ringing, and still 
people surged into the piazza. Thousands had got 
nothing from the Palace, and they cried out in anger 
against their companions, envious at their good luck. 
Bands had formed themselves, with chiefs, and they 
were going about exciting the others. Checco stood 
among them, unable to restrain them. Suddenly 
another cry rose from a thousand throats : 

‘‘ The Treasury ! 

And irresistible as the sea, they rushed to the 
Gabella. In a few minutes the same ruin had over- 
taken it, and it was lying bare and empty. 

Scarcely one of them remained in the piazza. The 
corpse was lying on the cold stones, naked, the face 
close to the house in which the living man had taken 
such pride ; and the house itself, with the gaping 
apertures from the stolen windows, looked like a 
building which had been burnt with fire, so that 
only the walls remained. And it was empty but 
for a few rapacious men, who were wandering about, 
like scavengers, to see whether anything had been 
left unfound. 

The body had done its work, and it could rest in 
peace. Checco sent for friars, who placed it on a 
stretcher, covering its nakedness, and bore it to their 
church. 


224 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Night came, and with it a little peace. The tumult 
with which the town was filled quieted down ; one 
by one the sounds ceased, and over the city fell a 
troubled sleep. . . . 


CHAPTER XXV. 


We were up betimes. The town was ours, except 
the citadel. Checco had gone to the fortress, which 
stood above the town, to one side, and had summoned 
the castellan to surrender. He had refused, as we 
expected ; but we were not much troubled, for we 
had Caterina and her children in our power, and by 
their means thought we could get hold of the castle. 

Checco had called a meeting of the council, to 
decide what should be done with the town. It was 
purely a measure of politeness, for he had already 
made up his mind, and taken steps in accordance. 
With the town so troubled, the citadel still in our 
opponent’s hands, and the armies of Lodovico Moro 
at Milan, it was hopeless to suggest standing alone, 
and Checco had decided to offer Forli to the Pope. 
This would give a protection against external enemies, 
and would not greatly interfere with the internal rela- 
tions. The real power would belong to the chief 
citizen, and Checco knew well enough who that 
was. Further, the lax grasp of the Pope would soon 
be loosed by death, and in the confusion of a long 
225 


226 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


conclave, and a change of rulers, it would not be im- 
possible to change the state of dependence into real 
liberty, and for Checco to add the rights and titles of 
lordship to the power. On the previous night he had 
sent a messenger to the Protonotary Savello, the 
papal Governor of Cesena, with an account of what 
had happened, and the offer of the town. Checco 
had requested an immediate reply, and was expecting 
it every minute. 

The council was called for ten o’clock. At nine 
Checco received Savello’s secret consent. 

The president of the council was Niccolo Torni- 
elli, and he opened the sitting by reminding his 
hearers of their object, and calling for their opinions. 
At first no one would speak. They did not know 
what was in Checco’s mind, and they had no wish 
to say anything that might be offensive to him. 
The Forlivesi are a cautious race! After awhile 
an old man got up and timidly expressed the thanks 
of the citizens for the freedom which Checco had 
bestowed upon them, suggesting also that he should 
speak first. The lead thus given, the worthies rose, 
one after another, and said the same things, with an 
air of profound originality. 

Then Antonio Lassi stood up. It was he who had 
advised Girolamo to impose the taxes on the town, 
and he was known to be a deadly enemy of Checco. 
The others had been sufficiently astonished when 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


227 


they saw him enter the council-chamber, for it was 
thought that he had left the town, as Ercole Pia- 
centini and others of the count’s favourites had 
done. When he prepared to speak, the surprise 
was universal. 

^‘Our good friend, Niccolo,” he said, ‘‘has called 
upon us to decide what shall be done with the 
town. 

“Your thoughts seem to be inclining to one 
foreign master or another. But my thoughts are 
inclining to the liberty in whose name the town 
has been won. 

“ Let us maintain the liberty which these men 
have conquered at the risk of their lives. . . . 

“Why should we doubt our ability to preserve 
the liberty of our ancestors Why should we think 
that we, who are descended from such fathers, born 
from their blood, bred in their houses, should have 
degenerated so far as to be incapable of seizing the 
opportunity which is presented to us ? 

“ Let us not fear that the mighty Monarch, who 
defends and protects him who walks the path of the 
just, will fail to give us spirit and strength to intro- 
duce and firmly to implant in this city the blessed 
state of liberty.” 

At the end of the sentence Antonio Lassi paused, 
to see the effect on his auditors. 

He went on : 


228 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


“ But as the example of our Master has shown us 
that the shepherd is necessary for the preservation 
of the flock ; and as he seems to point out our 
guardian by the success which he has granted to 
his arms in the extermination of the Wolf, I propose 
that we surrender our liberty to the hands of him 
who is best able to preserve it, — Checco d'Orsi/’ 

A cry of astonishment burst from the councillors. 
Was this Antonio Lassi ? They looked at Checco, 
but he was impassive ; not even the shadow of a 
thought could be read on his face. They asked 
themselves whether this was prearranged, whether 
Checco had bought his enemy, or whether it was a 
sudden device of Antonio to make his peace with 
the victor. One could see the agitation of their 
minds. They were tortured ; they did not know 
what Checco thought. Should they speak or be 
silent ? There was a look of supplication in their 
faces which was quite pitiful. Finally, one of them 
made up his mind, and rose to second Antonio 
Lassi's motion. Then others took their courage in 
both hands and made speeches full of praise for 
Checco, begging him to accept the sovereignty. 

A grave smile appeared on Checco’s face, but it 
disappeared at once. When he thought there had 
been sufficient talking, he rose to his feet, and, after 
thanking his predecessors for their eulogies, said : 

It is true that we have conquered the city at the 


THE MAKING OP A SAINT 


229 


risk of our lives ; but it was for the city, not for 
ourselves. . . . No thought of our own profit en- 
tered our minds, but we were possessed by a grave 
sense of our duty towards our fellow men. Our 
watchwords were Liberty and the Commonweal ! 
From the bottom of my heart I thank Antonio 
Lassi and all of you who have such confidence in 
me that you are willing to surrender the town to 
my keeping. In their good opinion I find a suffi- 
cient reward for all I have done. But, God knows, 
I have no desire to rule. I want the love of my 
fellow citizens, not the fear of subjects ; I look with 
dismay upon the toils of a ruler. And who would 
believe in my disinterestedness when he saw me take 
up the sceptre which the lifeless hand has dropped ? 

‘‘ Forgive me ; I cannot accept your gift. 

“ But there is one who can and will. The Church 
is not wont to close her breast to him who seeks 
refuge beneath her sacred cloak, and she will pardon 
us for having shaken from our necks the hard yoke 
of tyranny. Let us give ourselves to the Holy 
Father — '' 

He was interrupted by the applause of the coun- 
cillors ; they did not want to hear further, but agreed 
unanimously ; and it was forthwith arranged that an 
embassy should be sent to the Governor of Cesena to 
make the offer. The meeting was broken up amidst 
shouts of praise for Checco. If he had been strong 


230 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


before, he was ten times stronger now, for the better 
classes had been afraid of the mob and angry that he 
should depend on them ; now they were won, too. 

The people knew that the council was assembled 
to consult on the destinies of the town, and they 
had come together in thousands, outside the council 
house. The news was made known to them at once, 
and when Checco appeared at the top of the stairs 
a mighty shout burst from them, and they closed 
around him with cries and cheers. 

“ Bravo ! Bravo ! ” 

He began to walk homewards, and the crowd 
followed, making the old gray streets ring with 
their shouts. On each side people were thronging, 
and stood on tiptoe to see him, the men waving their 
caps and throwing them in the air, the women madly 
flourishing handkerchiefs ; children were hoisted up 
that they might see the great man pass, and joined 
their shrill cries to the tumult. Then it occurred to 
some one to spread his cloak for Checco to walk on, 
and at once every one followed his example, and the 
people pressed and struggled to lay their garments 
before his feet. And baskets of flowers were obtained 
and scattered before him, and the heavy scent of the 
narcissi filled the air. The shouts were of all kinds, 
but at last one arose, and gathered strength, and 
replaced the others, till ten thousand throats were 
shouting : 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. ^ 3 1 

Pater Patrice ! Pater Patrice ! ” 

Checco walked along with bare head, his eyes cast 
down, his face quite white. His triumph was so 
great — that he was afraid ! 

The great procession entered the street in which 
stood the Palazzo Orsi, and, at the same moment, 
from the gates of the Palace issued Checco’s wife 
and his children. They came towards us, followed 
by a troop of noble ladies. They met, and Checco, 
opening his arms, clasped his wife to his breast and 
kissed her tenderly ; then, with his arm around her 
waist, the children on each side, he proceeded 
towards his house. If the enthusiasm had been 
great before, now it was ten times greater. The 
people did not know what to do to show their joy ; 
no words could express their emotion ; they could 
only give a huge, deafening shout : 

‘‘ Pater Patrice ! Pater Patrice! '' 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


After awhile the formal embassy sent to Cesena 
came back with the message that the Protonotary 
Savello had been filled with doubts as to whether he 
should accept the town or no ; but seeing the 
Forlivesi firm in their desire to come under the pa- 
pal rule, and being convinced that their pious 
wish had been inspired by the most High Ruler of 
Kings, he had not ventured to contradict the mani- 
fest will of Heaven, and therefore would come and 
take possession of the city in person. 

Checco smiled a little as he heard of the worthy 
man’s doubts, and the arguments used by the ambas- 
sadors to persuade him ; but he fully agreed with 
Monsignor Savello’s decision, thinking the reasons 
very cogent. . . . 

The protonotary was received with all due honour. 
Savello was a middle-sized, stout man, with a great 
round belly and a fat red face, double-chinned, and 
a bull neck. He had huge ears and tiny eyes, like 
pig’s eyes, but they were very sharp and shrewd. 

232 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


233 


His eyebrows were pale and thin, so that, with the 
enormous expanse of shaven cheek, his face had a 
look of almost indecent nakedness. His hair was 
scanty, and his crown quite bald and shiny. He 
was gorgeously dressed in violet. After the greet- 
ings and necessary courtesies, he was informed of 
the state of things in Forli. He was vexed to find 
the citadel still in the hands of the castellan, who 
had been summoned with great courtesy to surren- 
der to the papal envoy, but without any courtesy at 
all had very stoutly declined. Savello said he would 
speak to the countess and make her order the cas- 
tellan to open his gates. I was sent forward to 
inform Caterina of the last occurrences, and of the 
protonotary’s desire for an interview. 

The countess had received apartments in the Orsi 
Palace, and it was into one of these rooms that the 
good Savello was ushered. 

He stopped on the threshold, and lifting up his 
arm stretched out two fingers, and, in his thick, fat 
voice, said : 

‘‘ The peace of God be upon you ! ” 

Caterina bowed and crossed herself. He went up 
to her and took her hand in his. 

‘‘ Madam, it has always been my hope that I 
should some day meet the lady whose fame has 
reached me as the most talented, most beautiful, 
and most virtuous of her time. But I did not think 


^34 


THE MAH/HO OF A FAINT 


that the day of our meeting would be one of such 
bitterness and woe ! 

He expressed himself in measured tones, grave 
and slow, and very fit to the occasion. 

Ah, lady, you do not know the grief I felt when 
I was made acquainted with your terrible loss. I 
knew your dear husband in Rome, and I always felt 
for him a most profound affection and esteem.'' 

‘‘ You are very kind ! " she said. 

‘‘ I can understand that you should be overwhelmed 
with grief, and I trust you do not think my visit im- 
portunate. I have come to offer you such consolation 
as is in my power ; for is it not the most blessed work 
that our Divine Master has imposed upon us, to 
comfort the afflicted } " 

“ I was under the impression that you had come to 
take over the city on behalf of the Pope." 

“ Ah, lady, I see that you are angry with me for 
taking the city from you ; but do not think I do it of 
myself. Ah, no ; I am a slave, I am but a servant 
of his Holiness. For my part, I would have acted 
far otherwise, not only for your own merits, great as 
they are, but also for the merits of the duke, your 
brother." 

His unction was most devout. He clasped his 
hand to his heart and looked up to heaven so 
earnestly that the pupils of his eyes disappeared 
beneath the lids, and one could only see the whites. 


THE MAKING OE A SAINT. 235 

In this attitude he was an impressive picture of 
morality. 

I beseech you, madam, bravely to bear your evil 
fortunes. Do we not know that fortune is uncertain ? 
If the city has been taken from you it is the will of 
God, and as a Christian you must, with resignation, 
submit yourself to his decrees. Remember that the 
ways of the Almighty are inscrutable. The soul of 
the sinner is purified by suffering. We must all pass 
through the fire. Perhaps these misfortunes will be 
the means of saving your soul alive. And now that 
this city has returned to the fold of the Master, — 
for is not the Holy Father the Vicar of Christ ? — be 
assured that the loss you have suffered will be made 
good to you in the love of his Holiness, and that 
eventually you will receive the reward of the sinner 
who has repented, and sit amongst the elect, singing 
hymns of praise to the glory of the Master of all 
things.'' 

He paused to take breath. I saw Caterina's 
fingers convulsively close around the arm of her 
chair ; she was restraining herself with difficulty. 

‘‘ But the greatest grief of all is the loss of your 
husband, Girolamo. Ah, how beautiful is the grief 
of a widow ! But it was the will of God. And what 
has he to complain of now ? Let us think of him 
clad in robes of light, with a golden harp in his 
hands. Ah, lady, he is an angel in heaven, and we 


236 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


are miserable sinners upon earth. How greatly to 
be envied is his lot ! He was a humble, pious man, 
and he has his reward. Ah — 

But she could hold back no longer. She burst 
forth like a fury. 

“ Oh, how can you stand before me, uttering these 
hypocrisies } How dare you say these things to me, 
when you are enjoying the fruits of his death and 
my misfortune.^ Hypocrite! You are the vulture 
feeding with the crows, and you come and whine and 
pray and talk to me of the will of God 1 

She clasped her hands and lifted them passionately 
towards heaven. 

‘‘ Oh, I hope that my turn will come, and then I 
will show you what is the will of God. Let them 
take care ! 

‘‘You are incensed, dear lady, and you know not 
what you say. You will regret that you have ac- 
cepted my consolations with disdain. But I forgive 
you with a Christian spirit.’' 

“ I do not want your forgiveness. I despise 
you.” 

She uttered the words like the hiss of a serpent. 
Savello’s eyes sparkled a little, and his thin lips were 
drawn rather thinner than before, but he only sighed, 
and said, gently : 

“ You are beside yourself. You should turn to 
the Consoler of Sorrow. Watch and pray I ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


237 


‘‘ What is it you want with me ? ” she said, taking 
no notice of his remark. 

Savello hesitated, looking at her. She beat her 
foot impatiently. 

‘‘ Quick ! ” she said. Tell me, and let me remain 
in peace. I am sick of you.'* 

‘‘ I came to offer you consolation, and to bid you 
be of good faith.” 

‘‘ Do you think I am a fool } If you have no fur- 
ther business with me, — go ! ” 

The priest now had some difficulty in containing 
himself ; his eyes betrayed him. 

‘‘ I am a man of peace, and I desire to spill no 
blood. Therefore I wished to propose that you 
should come with me, and summon the castellan to 
give up the citadel, which may be the means of 
avoiding much bloodshed, and also of gaining the 
thanks of the Holy Father.” 

‘‘ I will not help you. Shall I aid you to conquer 
my own town } ” 

‘‘You must remember that you are in our hands, 
fair lady,” he answered, meekly. 

“ Well.?” 

“ I am a man of peace, but I might not be able to 
prevent the people from revenging themselves on 
you, for your refusal. It will be impossible to hide 
from them that you are the cause of the holding back 
of the citadel.” 


238 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

“ I can well understand that you would hesitate at 
nothing/' 

‘‘ It is not I, dear lady — " 

“ Ah, no ; you are the servant of the Pope ! It is 
the will of God ! " 

You would be wise to do as we request." 

There was such a look of ferocity in his face, that 
one saw he would, indeed, hesitate at nothing. 
Caterina thought a little. . . . 

‘‘ Very well," she said, to my intense surprise, ‘‘ I 
will do my best." 

‘‘You will gain the gratitude of the Holy Father, 
and my own thanks." 

“ I put an equal value upon both." 

“And now, madam, I will leave you. Take com- 
fort, and apply yourself to pious exercises. In 
prayer you will find a consolation for all your woes." 

He raised his hand as before, and, with the out- 
stretched fingers, repeated the blessing. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


We went to the fortress in solemn procession, the 
people, as we passed, mingling shouts of praise for 
Checco, with yells of derision for Caterina. She 
walked on, with her stately indifference, and, when 
the protonotary addressed her, repelled him with 
disdain. 

The castellan was summoned, and the countess 
addressed him in the words Savello had suggested : 

“ As Heaven has taken the count from me, and also 
the city, I beg you, by the confidence I showed in 
choosing you as castellan, to surrender this fortress 
to the ministers of his Holiness, the Pope/' 

There was a light tinge of irony in her voice, and 
her lips showed the shadow of a smile. 

The castellan replied, gravely : 

By the confidence you showed in choosing me as 
castellan, I refuse to surrender this fortress to the 
ministers of his Holiness, the Pope. And as Heaven 
has taken the count from you, and also the city, it 
may take the citadel, too, but, by God ! madam, no 
power on earth shall.'' 


239 


240 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


Caterina turned to Savello, — 

«What shall I do?” 

‘‘ Insist.” 

She solemnly repeated her request, and he solemnly 
made his reply. 

‘^It is no good,” she said, ‘‘I know him too well. 
He thinks I am speaking under compulsion. He 
does not know that I am acting of my own will, for 
the great love I bear the Pope and the Church.” 

We must have the citadel,” said Savello, emphati- 
cally. If we do not get it, I cannot answer for 
your safety.” 

She looked at him ; then an idea seemed to occur 
to her. 

“ Perhaps if I went in and spoke to him he would 
consent to surrender.” 

“We cannot allow you out of our power,” said 
Checco. 

“You would have my children as hostages.” 

“That is true,” mused Savello; “I think we can 
let her go.” 

Checco disapproved, but the priest overruled him, 
and the castellan was summoned again, and ordered 
to admit the countess. Savello warned her : 

“ Remember that we hold your children, and shall 
not hesitate to hang them before your eyes if — ” 

“ I know your Christian spirit. Monsignor,” she 
interrupted. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


241 


But when she was inside she turned to us, and 
from the ramparts addressed us with mocking laugh- 
ter. The fury which had been boiling within her 
burst out. She hurled at us words of foul abuse, 
so that one might have thought her a fishwife ; 
she threatened us with death, and every kind of 
torture, in revenge for the murder of her hus- 
band. . . . 

We stood looking up at her with open mouths, 
dumbfounded. A cry of rage broke from the 
people ; Matteo uttered an oath. Checco looked 
angrily at Savello, but said nothing. The priest 
was furious; his big red face grew purple, and his 
eyes glistened like a serpent’s. 

Bastard ! ” he hissed. ‘‘ Bastard ! ” 

Trembling with anger, he ordered the children to 
be sent for, and he cried out to the countess : 

“Do not think that we shall hesitate. Your sons 
shall be hanged before your very eyes.” 

“ I have the means of making more,” she replied, 
scornfully. 

She was lion-hearted. I could not help feeling 
admiration for the extraordinary woman. Surely 
she could not sacrifice her children ! And I won- 
dered if a man would have had the courage to give 
that bold answer to Savello’s threats. 

Savello’s expression had become fiendish. He 
turned to his assistants. 


242 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Let a double scaffold be erected here, at once 
and quickly/' 

The chiefs of the conspiracy retired to a sheltered 
place, while the mob gathered in the piazza; and 
soon the buzz of many voices mingled with hammer- 
ing and the cries of workmen. The countess stood 
above, looking at the people, watching the gradual 
erection of the scaffold. 

In a little while its completion was announced. 
Savello and the others came forward, and the priest 
once more asked her whether she would surrender. 
She did not deign to answer. The two boys were 
brought forward, — one was nine, the other seven. 
As the people looked upon their youth a murmur 
of pity passed through them. My own heart began 
to beat a little. They looked at the scaffold and 
could not understand ; but Cesare, the younger, 
seeing the strange folk around him and the angry 
faces, began to cry. Ottaviano was feeling rather 
tearful, too ; but his superior age made him ashamed, 
and he was making mighty efforts to restrain himself. 
All at once Cesare caught sight of his mother, and 
he called to her. Ottaviano joined him, and they 
both cried out : 

‘‘ Mother ! Mother ! " 

She looked at them, but made not the slightest 
motion ; she might have been of stone. . . . Oh, 
it was horrible ; she was too hard ! 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


243 


Once more, I ask you,’' said Savello, will you 
surrender the castle ? ” 

No, — no ! ” 

Her voice was quite steady, ringing clear as a 
silver bell. 

Savello made a sign, and two men approached 
the boys. Then suddenly they seemed to under- 
stand ; with a shriek they ran to Checco, and 
falling at his feet, clasped his knees. Ottaviano 
could hold out no longer ; he burst into tears, and 
his brother, at the elder’s weakness, redoubled his 
own cries. 

‘‘O Checco, don’t let them touch us ! ” 

Checco took no notice of them ; he looked straight 
in front of him. And even when the count had just 
fallen under his dagger he had not been so ghastly 
pale. . . . The children were sobbing desperately 
at his knees. The men hesitated ; but there was no 
pity in the man of God ; he repeated his sign more 
decisively than before, and the men advanced. The 
children clung to Checco’s legs, crying : 

Checco, don’t let them touch us ! ” 

He made no sign. He held his eyes straight in 
front of him, as if he saw nothing, heard nothing. 
But his face ! Never have I seen such agony. . . . 

The children were torn from him, their hands 
bound behind their backs. How could they ! My 
heart was bursting within me, but I dared say 


244 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


nothing. They were led to the scaffold. A sobbing 
cry came from the people and wailed through the 
heavy air. 

The countess stood still, looking at her children. 
She made not the slightest motion ; she might have 
been of stone. 

The children cried out : 

“ Checco ! Checco ! '' 

It was heartbreaking. 

“ Go on ! said Savello. 

A groan burst from Ghecco, and he swayed to and 
fro, as if he were going to fall. 

‘‘Go on ! ” said Savello. 

But Checco could not bear it. 

“ O God ! Stop ! Stop ! ” 

“ What do you mean ^ ” said Savello, angrily. 
“ Go on ! ” 

“ I cannot ! Untie them ! 

“You fool! I threatened to hang them, and I 
will. Go on ! ” 

“ You shall not I Untie them, I tell you I ’’ 

“ I am master here. Go on ! 

Checco strode towards him with clenched fists. 

“ By God, Master Priest, you shall go the way you 
came, if you thwart me. Untie them I ” 

In a moment Matteo and I had pushed aside the 
men who held them, and cut their cords. Checco 
staggered towards the children, and they with a bound 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


245 


threw themselves into his arms. He clasped them 
to him passionately, and covered them with kisses. 
A shout of joy broke from the people, and many 
burst into tears. 

Suddenly we saw a commotion on the castle walls. 
The countess had fallen back, and men were pressing 
around her. 

She had fainted. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


We went home rather troubled. Savello was 
walking alone, very angry, with a heavy frown 
between his eyes, refusing to speak. . . . Checco 
was silent and angry, too, half blaming himself for 
what he had done, half glad, and Bartolomeo Moratini 
was by his side, talking to him. Matteo and I were 
behind with the children. Bartolomeo fell back and 
joined us. 

I have been trying to persuade Checco to apolo- 
gise to Savello, but he will not.'’ 

‘‘ Neither would I,” said Matteo. 

‘‘ If they quarrel, it will be the worse for the 
town.” 

If I were Checco, I would say that the town 
might go to the devil, but I would not apologise to 
that damned priest.” 

When we reached the Palazzo Orsi a servant came 
out to meet us, and told Checco that a messenger 
was waiting with important news. Checco turned to 
Savello, and said, gloomily : 

Will you come ? It may need some consultation.” 

246 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


247 


The protonotary did not answer, but walked sulkily 
into the house. After a few minutes, Checco came 
to us, and said : 

The Duke of Milan is marching against Forli with 
five thousand men.'' 

No one spoke, but the expression on the protono- 
tary’s face grew darker. 

‘‘ It is fortunate we have preserved the children," 
said Bartolomeo. ‘‘They will be more useful to us 
alive than dead." 

Savello looked at him, and then, as if trying to 
mend the breach, but rather against his will, said, 
ungraciously : 

“ Perhaps you were right, Checco, in what you did. 
I did not see at the moment the political wisdom of 
your act." 

He could not help the sneer. Checco flushed a 
little, but on a look Bartolomeo answered : 

“ I am sorry if I was too quick of tongue. The 
excitement of the moment and my temper made me 
scarcely responsible." 

Checco looked as if it were a very bitter pill he had 
been forced to swallow, but the words had a reason- 
able effect, and the clouds began to clear away. An 
earnest discussion was commenced on the future 
movements. The first thing was to send for help 
against the Duke Lodovico. Savello said he would 
apply to Rome. Checco counted on Lorenzo de' 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Medici, and messengers were forthwith despatched to 
both. Then it was decided to gather as much victuals 
as possible into the town, and fortify the walls, so 
that they might be prepared for a siege. As to the 
citadel, we knew it was impossible to take it by storm ; 
but it would not be difficult to starve it into surrender, 
for on the news of the count's death the gates had 
been shut with such precipitation that the garrison 
could not have food for more than two or three 
days. 

Then Checco sent away his wife and children ; he 
tried to persuade his father to go, too, but the Orso 
said he was too old, and would rather die in his own 
town and palace than rush about the country in 
search of safety. In the troubled days of his youth 
he had been exiled many times, and now his only 
desire was to remain at home in his beloved Forli. 

The news of Lodovico's advance threw consterna- 
tion into the town, and when cartloads of provisions 
were brought in, and the fortifications worked at day 
and night, the brave citizens began to quake and 
tremble. They were going to have a siege, and 
would have to fight, and it was possible that, if they 
did not sufficiently hide themselves behind the walls, 
they might be killed. As I walked through the 
streets, I noticed that the whole populace was dis- 
tinctly paler. ... It was as if a cold wind had 
blown between their shoulders, and bleached and 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 249 

pinched their faces. I smiled, and said to them, 
in myself : 

‘‘You have had the plunder of the Palace and the 
custom-houses, my friends, and you liked that very 
well ; now you will have to pay for your pleasure.'' 

I admired Checco's wisdom in giving them good 
reasons for being faithful to him. I imagined that, 
if the beneficent rule of the countess returned, it 
would fare ill with those who had taken part in the 
looting. ... 

Checco had caused his family to leave the town as 
secretly as possible ; the preparations had been made 
with the greatest care, and the departure effected 
under cover of night. But it leaked out, and then 
the care he had taken in concealing the affair made 
it more talked of. They asked why Checco had 
sent away his wife and children. Was he afraid of 
the siege Did he intend to leave them himself } 
At the idea of a betrayal, anger mixed itself with 
their fear, and they cried out against him ! And 
why did he want to do it so secretly 1 Why should 
he try to conceal it } A thousand answers were 
given, and all more or less discreditable to Checco. 
His wonderful popularity had taken long enough to 
reach the point when he had walked through the 
streets amidst showers of narcissi ; but it looked as 
if less days would destroy it than years had built 
it up. Already he could walk out without being 


250 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


surrounded by the mob and carried about in triumph. 
The shouts of joy had ceased to be a burden to 
him ; and no one cried Pater Patrice'' as he passed. 
Checco pretended to notice no change, but in his 
heart it tormented him terribly. The change had 
begun on the day of the fiasco at the fortress ; people 
blamed the leaders for letting the countess out of 
their hands, and it was a perpetual terror to them to 
have the enemy in their very midst. It would have 
been bearable to stand an ordinary siege, but when 
they had their own citadel against them, what could 
they do } 

The townspeople knew that help was coming from 
Rome and Florence, and the general hope was that 
the friendly armies would arrive before the terrible 
duke. Strange stories were circulated about Lodo- 
vico. People who had seen him at Milan described 
his sallow face with the large hooked nose and the 
broad, heavy chin. Others told of his cruelty. It 
was notorious that he had murdered his nephew after 
keeping him a prisoner for years. They remembered 
how he had crushed the revolt of a subject town, 
hanging in the market-place the whole council, young 
and old, and afterwards hunting up every one sus- 
pected of complicity, and ruthlessly putting them to 
death, so that a third of the population had perished. 
The Forlivesi shuddered, and looked anxiously along 
the roads by which the friendly armies were expected. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


251 


Lorenzo de* Medici refused to help. 

There was almost a tumult in the town when the 
news was told. He said that the position of Florence 
made it impossible for him to send troops at the 
present moment, but later he would be able to do 
whatever we wished. It meant that he intended to 
wait and see how things turned out, without coming 
to open war with the duke unless it was certain that 
victory would be on our side. Checco was furious, 
and the people were furious with Checco. He had 
depended entirely on the help from Florence, and 
when it failed the citizens murmured openly against 
him, saying that he had entered into this thing with- 
out preparation, without thought of the future. We 
begged Checco not to show himself in the town that 
day, but he insisted. The people looked at him as 
he passed, keeping perfect silence. As yet they 
neither praised nor blamed, but how long would it 
be before they refrained from cursing him they had 
blessed } Checco walked through with set face, very 
pale. We asked him to turn back, but he refused, 
slackening his pace to prolong the walk, as if it gave 
him a certain painful pleasure to drain the cup of 
bitterness to the dregs. In the piazza we saw two 
councillors talking together ; they crossed over to 
the other side, pretending not to see us. 

Now our only hope was in Rome. The Pope had 
sent a messenger to say that he was preparing an 


252 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


army, and bidding us keep steadfast and firm. 
Savello posted the notice up in the market-place, 
and the crowd that read broke out into praises of 
the Pope and Savello. And, as Checco’s influence 
diminished, Savello’s increased ; the protonotary 
began to take greater authority in the councils, 
and often he seemed to contradict Checco for the 
mere pleasure of overbearing and humiliating him. 
Checco became more taciturn and gloomy every 
day. 

But the high spirits of the townsmen sank when 
it was announced that Lodovico’s army was within a 
day’s march, and nothing had been heard from Rome. 
Messengers were sent urging the Pope to hasten his 
army, or at least to send a few troops to divert 
the enemy and encourage the people. The citizens 
mounted the ramparts and watched the two roads, — 
the road that led from Milan and the road that led 
to Rome. The duke was coming nearer and nearer ; 
the peasants began to flock into the town, with their 
families, their cattle, and such property as they had 
been able to carry with them. They said the duke 
was approaching with a mighty army, and that he 
had vowed to put all the inhabitants to the sword to 
revenge the death of his brother. The fear of the 
fugitives spread to the citizens, and there was a 
general panic. The gates were closed, and all 
grown men summoned to arms. Then they began 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


253 


to lament, asking what inexperienced townsmen 
could do against the trained army of the duke, and 
the women wept and implored their husbands not 
to risk their precious lives ; and above all rose the 
murmur against Checco. 

When would the army come from Rome ? They 
asked the country folk, but they had heard of 
nothing ; they looked and looked, but the road was 
empty. 

And, suddenly, over the hills was seen appearing 
the vanguard of the duke’s army. The troops 
wound down into the plain, and others appeared 
on the brow of the hills ; slowly they marched 
down, and others again appeared, and others and 
others, and still they appeared on the summit and 
wound down into the plain. They wondered, hor- 
ror-stricken, how large the army was, — five, ten, 
twenty thousand men ! Would it never end } They 
were panic-stricken. At last the whole army de- 
scended and halted ; there was a confusion of com- 
mands, a rushing hither and thither, a bustling, a 
troubling ; it looked like a colony of ants furnishing 
their winter home. The camp was marked out, 
entrenchments were made, tents erected, and Forli 
was in a state of siege. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


The night fell, and was passed without sleep or 
rest. The citizens were gathered together on the 
walls, talking anxiously, trying to pierce the darkness 
to see the rescuing army from Rome. Now and 
then some one thought he heard the tramp of 
cavalry, or saw a gleam of armour, and then they 
stood still, holding their breaths, listening. But 
they heard nothing, saw nothing. . . . Others were 
assembled in the piazza, and with them a crowd 
of women and children ; the churches were full of 
women praying and weeping. The night seemed 
endless. At last a greater chilliness of the air told 
them that the dawn was at hand ; gradually the 
darkness seemed to thin away into a cold pallor, 
and above a bank of cloud in the east appeared 
a sickly light. More anxiously than ever our eyes 
turned towards Rome ; the mist hid the country 
from us, but some of the watchers thought they 
saw a black mass, far away. They pointed it out 
to the others, and all watched eagerly ; but the 
black mass grew neither larger nor clearer nor 
254 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


255 


nearer ; and as great yellow rays shot up above 
the clouds, and the sun rose slowly, we saw the 
road stretched out before us, and it was empty, 
empty, empty. 

It was almost a sob that burst from them, and 
meaningly they asked when help was coming. At 
that moment a man ascended the ramparts and told 
us that the protonotary had received a letter from 
the Pope, in which he informed him that relief was 
on the way. A cheer broke from us. At last ! 

The siege began in earnest, with a simultaneous 
attack on the four gates of the town, but they were 
well defended, and the enemy easily beaten off. But 
all at once we heard a great sound of firing, and 
shouts, and shrieks, and we saw flames burst from 
the roof of a house. In our thought of Lodovico we 
had forgotten the enemy in our midst, and a terrible 
panic broke out when it was found that the citadel 
had opened fire. The castellan had turned his 
cannon on the houses surrounding the fortress, and 
the damage was terrible. The inhabitants hurried 
out for their lives, taking with them their chattels, 
and fled to safer parts of the town. One house had 
been set on fire, and for awhile we feared that others 
would catch and a general conflagration be added to 
our woes. People said it was a visitation of God; 
they talked of divine vengeance for the murder of 
the count, and when Checco hurried to the scene 


256 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

of the fire they did not care to restrain themselves 
any longer, but broke out into yells and hisses. 
Afterwards, when the flames had been extinguished 
and Checco was passing through the piazza, they 
surrounded him, hooting, and would not let him 
pass. 

“Curs!” he hissed, looking at them, furiously, 
with clenched fists. Then, as if unable to contain 
himself, he drew his sword, shouting : 

“ Let me pass I ” 

They shrank back, and he went his way. But, 
immediately he had gone, the storm redoubled, and 
the place rang with their cries. 

“ By God,” said Checco, “ how willingly I would 
turn the cannon on them, and mow them down like 
grass ! ” 

They were the first words he had said of the 
change of feeling. . . . 

It was the same with us, when we walked through 
the streets, — Matteo and I, and the Moratini, — 
they hissed and groaned at us. And a week before 
they would have licked our boots, and kissed the 
ground we trod on. 

The bombardment continued, outside and in, and 
it was reported through the town that Lodovico had 
vowed to sack the place, and hang every third citi- 
zen. They knew he was the man to keep his word. 
The murmurs began to grow even louder, and voices 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


257 


were heard suggesting a surrender. ... It had oc- 
curred to all of them, and when the most timid, driven 
to boldness by their fear, spoke the word, they looked 
at one another guiltily. They gathered together in 
little knots, talking in undertones, suspicious, stop- 
ping suddenly if they saw near any one who was 
known to be in favour of the party of liberty. 
They discussed how to make terms for themselves ; 
some suggested giving up the town unconditionally, 
others proposed an agreement. At last they spoke 
of appeasing the duke by handing over to him the 
seventeen conspirators, who had planned the murder 
of Girolamo. The thought frightened them at first, 
but they soon became used to it. They said the 
Orsi had really had no thought of the common good, 
but it was for their private ends that they had killed 
the count, and brought this evil on the town. They 
railed against Checco for making them suffer for 
his own ambition ; they had lauded him to the skies 
for refusing the sovereignty, but now they said he 
had only feigned, and that he intended to seize the 
city at the first good opportunity. And as to the 
others, they had helped for greed and petty malice. 
As they talked, they grew more excited, and soon 
they said it would only be justice to hand over to 
the duke the authors of their troubles. 

The day passed, and the second night, but there 
were no signs of the help from Rome. 


25 8 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

Another night passed by, and still nothing came ; 
the dawn, and the road was as empty as before. 

And the fourth night came and went, and still 
there was nothing. Then a great discouragement 
fell upon the people ; the army was on the way, but 
why did it not arrive } Suddenly, here and there, 
people were heard asking about the letter from the 
Pope. No one had seen the messenger. How had 
it come I And a horrible suspicion seized the peo- 
ple, so that they rushed to the Palazzo Orsi, asking 
for Savello. As soon as he appeared, they broke 
out, clamorously : 

Show us the letter ! ’’ 

Savello refused ! They insisted ; they asked for 
the messenger who had brought it. Savello said he 
had been sent back. None of us had seen letter or 
messenger ; the suspicion seized us, too, and Checco 
asked : 

Is there a letter } 

Savello looked at him for a moment, and answered : 
‘‘ No ! 

‘‘ O God, why did you say there was ? 

I felt sure the army was on the way. I wanted 
to give them confidence.’' 

‘‘You fool! Now they will believe nothing. You 
fool, you have muddled everything ! ” 

“It is you! You told me that the city was firm 
for the Pope.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 259 

So it was, till you came with your lies and your 
treacheries/' 

Savello closed his fist, and I thought he was going 
to strike Checco. A yell burst from the people. 

‘‘The letter! the messenger!" 

Checco sprang to the window. 

“ There is no letter ! The protonotary has lied 
to you. No help is coming from Rome, nor from 
Florence ! " 

The people yelled again, and another cry arose : 

“ Surrender ! Surrender ! " 

“ Surrender at your pleasure," shouted Checco, 
“but do not think that the duke will forgive you 
for stripping the count, and insulting his body, and 
sacking his palace." 

Savello was standing alone, struck dumb in his 
rage. Checco turned to him, and smiled mockingly. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


Next day there was a secret meeting of the coun- 
cil, of which neither Checco nor his friends knew 
anything. But it leaked out that they had been dis- 
cussing terms which Lodovico had offered. And 
the duke’s proposal was that Riario’s children should 
be surrendered to him, and the town ruled by a com- 
mission, appointed partly by him, partly by the For- 
livesi. About midday a servant came and told us 
that Niccolo Tornielli and the other members of the 
council were below, seeking admission. Checco went 
down, and as soon as he saw him Niccolo said : 

‘‘Checco, we have decided that it will be better 
for us to have charge of the children of Count Giro- 
lamo ; and, therefore, we have come to summon you 
to give them into our hands.” 

Checco’s answer was short and pointed. 

“If that is all you came for, Niccolo, you can 
go. . . 

At this Antonio Lassi broke in : 

“We shall not go without the children.”- 
260 


I 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 26 1 

“I imagine that depends me ; and I intend to 
keep the children.” X 

‘‘ Take care, Checco ; remember that you are not 
our master.” 

‘‘And who are you, Antonio, I should like to 
know ? ” 

“I am a member of the council of Forli, just as 
you are ; no more, no less.” 

“No,” said Checco, furiously; “I will tell you 
who you are. You are the miserable cur who pan- 
dered to the tyrant, and helped him to oppress the 
people which I liberated ; and the people spat upon 
you! You are the miserable cur who fawned upon 
me when I had killed the tyrant, and in your slavish 
adulation you proposed to make me ruler in his 
stead ; and I spat upon you I And now you are 
afraid again, and you are trying to make peace with 
the duke by betraying me, and it is from you that 
come the propositions to give me up to Lodovico. 
That is what you are ! Look at yourself, and be 
proud ! ” 

Antonio was about to give a heated answer, but 
Niccolo interrupted him. 

“ Be quiet, Antonio ! Now, Checco, let us have the 
children.” 

“ I will not, I tell you 1 I saved their lives, and they 
are mine by right. They are mine because I killed 
the count ; because I took them prisoners ; because 


262 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I hold them.; and because they are necessary for my 
safety.” 

They are necessary for our safety, too, and we, 
the council of Forli, summon you, Checco d’Orsi, to 
surrender them.” 

‘‘And I, Checco d’Orsi, refuse!” 

“Then we shall take them by force.” 

Niccolo and Antonio stepped forward. Checco 
whipped out his sword. 

“By God, I swear I will kill the first man who 
crosses this threshold I ” 

Gradually the people had collected, till behind the 
councillors there was a formidable crowd. They 
watched with eagerness the dispute, hailing with joy 
the opportunity of humiliating their old hero. They 
had broken out in mocking laughter while Checco 
was railing at Antonio ; now they shouted : 

“ The children I Surrender the children I ” 

“ I will not, I tell you ! ” 

They began to hoot and hiss, calling Checco foul 
names, accusing him of causing all their troubles, 
naming him tyrant and usurper. Checco stood look- 
ing at them, trembling with rage. Niccolo stepped 
forward once more. 

“ Give them up, Checco, or it will be the worse for 
you.” 

“ Advance one step further, and I will kill you ! ” 

The people grew suddenly exasperated ; a shower 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 263 

of stones fell upon us, and one, striking Checco, 
caused a long streak of blood to flow down his fore- 
head. 

“ Give us the children ! Give us the children ! 

‘‘We will call the guard,’' said Antonio. 

“ The children ! ” shouted the mob. “ He will kill 
them. Take them from him.” 

There was a rush from behind ; the councillors 
and their supporters were driven forward ; they were 
rfet by our drawn swords ; in another moment it 
would have been too late, and against two hundred 
we should have been helpless. Suddenly Bartolo- 
meo appeared at the head of the great staircase with 
the boys. 

“ Stop ! ” he cried. “ Here are the children. 
Stop ! ” Checco turned around to him. 

“ I will not have them given up. Take them 
away ! ” 

“ I have never asked you anything before, Checco,” 
said Bartolomeo ; “ I have always done as you com- 
manded ; but this time I implore you to give way.” 

I joined my words to his. 

“You must give way. We shall all be mas- 
sacred.” 

Checco stood for a moment undecided, then, with- 
out speaking, he turned into a room looking on the 
court. We took it for consent, and Bartolomeo 
handed the frightened children to the councillors. 


264 the making of a saint. 

A shout of joy broke from the people, and they 
marched off with their prize, in triumph. . . . 

I sought Checco, and found him alone. As he 
heard the shouts of the people, a sob came from him 
in the misery of his humiliation. 

But Jacopo Ronchi and the two sons of Bartolo- 
meo were sent out to discover what was going on. 
We could not think what had driven the council to 
their step ; but we felt sure they must have gooH 
reasons for acting so courageously. We felt also 
that we had lost all power, all hope. The wheel had 
turned, and now we were at the bottom. After 
several hours, Alessandro Moratini came back and 
said : 

‘‘The council has been meeting again, and it has 
been receiving messengers ; but that is all I know. 
Every one looks upon me with an evil eye, and be- 
comes silent at my approach. I ask questions, and 
they say they know nothing, have seen nothing, 
heard nothing.'’ 

“ Brutes ! " said Matteo. 

“ And for these people we risked our lives and for- 
tunes ! " said Bartolomeo. 

Checco looked at him, curiously ; and, like him, I 
thought of our disinterestedness ! Alessandro, hav- 
ing given his news, filled a glass with wine and sat 
down. We all kept silence. The time went on, and 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 265 

the afternoon began to close ; the hours seemed in- 
terminable. At last Jacopo Ronchi came, panting. 

‘‘I have discovered everything,'' he said. ‘‘The 
council has resolved to surrender the town to the 
duke, who promises, in return for the children, to 
forgive everything and allow them to rule them- 
selves, with half the council appointed by him." 

We sprang up, with a cry. 

“I will not allow it," said Checco. 

“If the conspirators make any disturbance, they 
are to be outlawed and a price set upon their heads." 

“ How far have the negotiations gone " I asked. 

“ The messengers have been sent to the duke now." 

“In that case there is no time to lose," I said. 

“What do you mean said Checco. 

“We must escape." 

“ Escape ! 

“ Or we shall be taken alive ; and you know what 
to expect from Caterina and Lodovico. Do not think 
of their promises of pardon." 

“ I put no trust in their promises," said Checco, 
bitterly. 

“Filippo is right," said Bartolomeo. “We must 
escape." 

“And quickly!" I said. 

“ I cannot throw up the game," said Checco. 
“And without me, what will happen to my sup- 
porters " 


266 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘They may find forgiveness in submission. But 
you can do no good here. If you are in safety, you 
may be of some assistance. Anyhow, you will have 
life.’^ 

Checco buried his face in his hands. 

“ I cannot, I cannot.'' 

The Moratini and I insisted. We adduced every 
argument. Finally he consented. 

“ We must go together," I said ; “we may have to 
fight our way through." 

“Yes," said Scipione. “Let us meet at the gate 
by the river, — at two." 

“ But go there separately. If the people find we 
are attempting to escape, they will set upon us." 

“ I wish they would," said Matteo. “ It would 
give me such satisfaction to put my sword into half 
a score of their fat bellies ! " 

“There is no moon." 

“ Very well ; at two ! " 

The night was cloudy, and, if there had been a 
moon, it would have been covered. A thin, cold 
rain was falling, and it was pitch dark. When I got 
to the river gate, four or five of them were already 
there. We felt too cold and miserable to speak ; we 
sat on our horses, waiting. As new arrivals came, 
we peered into their faces, and then, on recognising 
them, bent back, and sat on silently. We were all 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 267 

there but Checco. We waited for a time. At last 
Bartolomeo Moratini whispered to Matteo : 

‘‘ Where did you leave Checco ? '' 

‘‘ In the house. He told me to go on, saying he 
would follow shortly. Two horses were saddled 
besides mine.*’ 

‘‘ Whom was the second for ? ” 

‘‘I don’t know.” 

We waited on. The rain fell thin and cold. It 
struck half past two. Immediately afterwards, we 
heard the sound of hoofs, and through the mist saw 
a black form coming towards us. 

‘‘ Is it you, Checco ? ” we whispered, for the guard 
of the gate might have heard us. We were standing 
in a little plot of waste ground, ten yards from the 
walls. 

‘‘ I cannot go with you,” said Checco. 

Why ? ” we cried. 

‘‘ Ssh ! ” said Checco. ‘‘ I intended to bring my 
father, but he will not come.” 

None of us had thought of old Orso Orsi. 

‘‘He says he is too old, and will not leave his 
native town. I did all I could to persuade him, but 
he bade me go, and said they would not dare to touch 
him. I cannot leave him ; therefore go, all of you, 
and I will remain.” 

“ You must come, Checco ; without you we are 
helpless.” 


268 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ And what of your wife and children ? 

Your presence will exasperate the tyrants. You 
can do no good, only harm.'' 

‘‘ I cannot leave my father unprotected." 

I will stay, Checco," I said. I am not well 
known as you are. I will take care of your father, 
and you can watch over your family and your in- 
terests in safety." 

“ No, you must go. It is too dangerous for you." 

‘‘ Not half so dangerous as for you. I will do my 
best to preserve him. Let me stay." 

<‘Yes," said the others, ‘^let Filippo stay. He 
may escape detection, but you would have no chance." 

The clock struck three. 

“ Come, come ; it is getting late. We must be 
thirty miles away before daybreak." 

We had already arranged to go to Citta di Gas- 
tello, which was my native place, and, in case of 
accident, I had given them letters, so that they 
might be housed and protected, for the present. 

We must have you, Checco, or we will all stay." 

‘‘ You will take care of him } " said Checco to me, 
at last. 

‘‘ I swear it ! " 

‘‘ Very well ! Good-bye, Filippo, and God bless 
you ! " 

They advanced to the gate, and Checco summoned 
the captain. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 269 

Open the gate/' he said, shortly. 

The captain looked at them, undecisively. I stood 
behind, in the shade, so that I could not be seen. 

‘‘ If you make a sound, we will kill you," said 
Checco. 

They drew their swords. He hesitated, and 
Checco repeated : 

‘‘ Open the gate ! " 

Then he brought out the heavy keys ; the locks 
were turned, the gate growled on its hinges, and one 
by one they filed out. Then the gate swung back 
behind them. I heard a short word of command 
and the clatter of horses’ hoofs. I put the spurs to 
my own, and galloped back into the town. 

In half an hour the bells were ringing furiously, 
and it was announced, from house to house, that the 
conspirators had fled, and the town was free. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


In the morning the council met again, and resolved 
that the town should return to its old obedience, and, 
by surrendering without conditions, hoped to receive 
pardon for its offences. Lodovico Moro entered in 
triumph, and, going to the fortress, was received by 
Caterina, who came forth from the citadel, and with 
him proceeded to the cathedral to hear mass. The 
good Forlivesi were getting used to ovations ; as the 
countess passed through the streets, they received 
her with acclamation, thronging the road on each 
side, blessing her, and her mother, and all her ances- 
tors. She went her way as indifferent as when she 
had crossed the same streets, a few days back, amid 
the execrations of her faithful subjects. The keen 
observers noticed the firm closing of her mouth, 
which boded no particular good to the Forlivesi, and 
consequently redoubled their shouts of joy. 

The protonotary, Savello, had mysteriously disap- 
peared when the news of Checco's flight had been 
brought him ; but Caterina was soon informed that 
270 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


271 


he had taken refuge in a Dominican monastery. A 
light smile broke over her lips, as she remarked : 

‘‘ One would rather have expected him to take 
refuge in a convent.’' 

Then she sent people to him to assure him of her 
good-will and beg him to join her. The good man 
turned pale at the invitation, but he dared not refuse 
it. So, comforting himself with the thought that she 
dared not harm the legate of the Pope, he clothed 
himself in all his courage and his most gorgeous 
robes, and proceeded to the cathedral. 

When she saw him, she lifted up two fingers and 
said, solemnly : ^ 

‘‘ The peace of God be upon you ! ” 

Then, before he could recover himself, she went 
on : 

Sir, it has always been my hope that I should 
some day meet the gentleman whose fame has 
reached me as the most talented, most beautiful, 
and most virtuous of his day.” 

‘‘ Madam — ” he interrupted. 

Sir, I beseech you bravely to bear your evil 
fortunes. Do you not know that fortune is uncer- 
tain } If the city has been taken from you, it is 
the will of God, and as a Christian you must with 
resignation submit yourself to his decrees.” 

It was the beginning of her revenge, and one could 
see how sweet it was. The courtiers were snicker- 


2/2 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


ing at Caterina’s speech, and Savello was the picture 
of discomfort. 

‘‘Messer Savello,” she proceeded, “on a previous 
meeting you made me some very excellent admoni- 
tions on the will of God ; now, notwithstanding your 
order, I am going to be so bold as to give you some 
equally excellent lessons on the same “subject. If 
you will take your place by my side, you will have 
every opportunity of examining the ways of the 
Almighty, which, as you may remember you re- 
marked, are inscrutable.” 

Savello bowed, and advanced to the place pointed 
out to him. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


The first thing I had done on returning to the 
Palazzo Orsi was to strip myself of my purple and 
fine linen, shave my beard and moustache, cut my 
hair short, put on the clothes of a serving-man, and 
look at myself in a mirror. If I had met in the street 
the image I saw, I should have passed on without 
recognising it. Still, I was not dissatisfied with my- 
self, and I smiled as I thought that it would not be 
too extraordinary if a lady's wench lost her heart to 
such a serving-man. 

I went to the old Orso’s apartments, and found 
everything quiet ; I lay down on a couch outside the 
doors and tried to sleep ; but my thoughts troubled 
me. My mind was with the sad horsemen galloping 
through the night, and I wondered what the morrow 
had in store for them and me. I knew a price would 
be set upon my head, and I had to remain here in 
the midst of my enemies as the only protection of 
an old man of eighty-five. 

In a little while, I heard the bells which told the 
273 


274 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


town that the conspirators had fled, and at last I fell 
into a troubled sleep. At six I was wakened up by a 
hurry and bustle in the house. . . . The servants 
told one another that Checco had gone, and the 
countess would come out of the fortress in a little 
while ; and then God only knew what would happen. 
They cowered about, whispering, taking no notice of 
the new serving-man who had appeared in the night. 
They said that the palace would be given over to 
the vengeance of the people, that the servants would 
suffer instead of the master ; and soon one of them 
gave the signal ; he said he would not stay, and since 
his wages had not been paid he would take them with 
him. He filled his pockets with such valuables as 
he could find, and, going down a back staircase, slid 
out of a little side door and was lost in the laby- 
rinth of streets. The others were quick to follow his 
example, and the palace was subjected to a looting 
in miniature ; the old steward stood by, wringing his 
hands, but they paid no attention to him, thinking 
only of their safety and their pockets. Before the 
sun had had time to clear away the early mists, they 
had all fled ; and besides the old man, the house 
contained only the white-haired steward, a boy of 
twenty, his nephew, and myself ; and Checco had 
been such a sweet and gentle master ! 

We went in to the old Orso. He was seated in a 
large armchair by the fireside, huddled up in a heavy 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


275 


dressing-gown. He had sunk his head down in his 
collar to keep warm, so that one could only see the 
dead eyes, the nose, and the sunken, wrinkled cheeks ; 
a velvet cap covered his hair and forehead. He was 
holding his long, shrivelled hands to the fire, and the 
flames almost shone through them ; they trembled 
incessantly. He looked up at the sound of our 
entrance. 

^‘Ah, Pietro!’’ he said to the steward. Then, 
after a pause, Where is Fabrizio } ” 

Fabrizio was the servant in whose particular charge 
the Orso had been put, and the old man had become 
so fond of him that he would take food only from 
his hand, and insisted on having him near at every 
moment of the day. He had been among the first 
to fill his pockets and decamp. 

‘‘Why does not Fabrizio come.^” he asked, queru- 
lously. “ Tell him I want him. I will not be 
neglected in this way.” 

Pietro did not know what to answer. He looked 
about him, in embarrassment. 

“ Why does not Fabrizio come } Now that Checco 
is master here, they neglect me. It is scandalous. 
I shall talk to Checco about it. Where is Fabrizio } 
Tell him to come immediately, on pain of my dis- 
pleasure.” 

His voice was so thin and weak and trembling it 
was like that of a little child ill with some fever. I 


2/6 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

saw that Pietro had nothing to say, and Orso was 
beginning to moan feebly. 

‘‘ Fabrizio has been sent away,'’ I said, ‘‘ and I have 
been put in his place.” 

Pietro and his nephew looked at me. They noticed 
for the first time that my face was new, and they 
glanced at one another with upraised brows. 

‘‘Fabrizio sent away! Who sent him away.^^ I 
won’t have him sent away.” 

“ Checco sent him away.” 

“ Checco had no right to send him away. I am 
master here. They treat me as if I were a child. 
It is shameful I Where is Fabrizio ? I will not have 
it, I tell you. It is shameful ! I shall speak to 
Checco about it. Where is Checco ? ” 

None of us answered. 

“ Why don’t you answer when I speak to you ? 
Where is Checco ? ” 

He raised himself in his chair and bent forward to 
look at us, then he fell back. 

“ Ah, I remember now,” he murmured. “ Checco 
has gone. He wanted me to go, too. But I am too 
old, too old, too old. I told Checco what it would 
be. I know the Forlivesi ; I have known them for 
eighty years. They are more fickle and cowardly 
than any other people in this cesspool which they 
call God’s earth. I have been an exile fourteen 
times. Fourteen times I have fled from the city. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


277 

and fourteen times I have returned. Ah, yes, I have 
lived the life in my time, but I am tired now. I don’t 
want to go out again ; and, besides, I am so old. I 
might die before I returned, and I want to die in my 
own house.” 

He looked at the fire, murmuring his confidences 
to the smouldering ashes. Then he seemed to repeat 
his talk with Checco. 

‘‘ No, Checco, I will not come. Go alone. They 
will not touch me. I am Orso Orsi. They will not 
touch me ; they dare not. Go alone, and give my 
love to Clarice.” 

Clarice was Checco’ s wife. He kept silence for 
awhile, then he broke out again : 

‘‘I want Fabrizio.” 

“Will I not do instead ? ” I asked. 

“ Who are you ? ” 

I repeated, patiently : 

“ I am the servant placed here to serve you instead 
of Fabrizio. My name is Fabio.” 

“ Your name is Fabio ” he asked, looking at me. 

“ Yes.” 

“ No, it is not ! Why do you tell me your name is 
Fabio I know your face. You are not a serving- 
man.” 

“You are mistaken,” I said. 

“ No, no. You are not Fabio. I know your face. 
Who are you ^ ” 


2/8 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


am Fabio/’ 

‘‘ Who are you ? '' he asked again, querulously. I 
cannot remember who you are. Why don't you tell 
me } Can’t you see that I am an old man } Why 
don’t you tell me } ” 

His voice broke into the moan, and I thought he 
would cry. He had only seen me twice, but among 
his few visitors the faces of those he saw remained 
with him, and he recognised me partly. 

‘‘I am Filippo Brandolini,” I said. have re- 
mained here to look after you and see that no harm 
happens. Checco wished to stay himself, but we 
insisted on his going.” 

Oh, you are a gentleman,” he answered. I am 
glad of that.” 

Then, as if the talk had tired him, he sank deeper 
down in his chair and fell into a doze. 

I sent Andrea, the steward’s nephew, to see what 
was happening in the town, and Pietro and I sat in 
the large window talking in undertones. Suddenly 
Pietro stopped, and said : 

‘‘ What is that 1 ” 

We both listened. A confused roar in the dis- 
tance ; it resembled the raging of the sea very far 
away. I opened the window, and looked out. The 
roar became louder, louder, and, at last, we discov- 
ered that it was the sound of many voices. 

What is it 1 ” asked Pietro, again. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


279 


There was a scrambling up the stairs, the noise of 
running feet. The door was burst violently open, 
and Andrea rushed in. 

“ Save yourselves ! he cried. “ Save yourselves ! ” 

^‘What is it?” 

“ They are coming to sack the palace. The count- 
ess has given them leave, and the whole populace 
is up.’* 

The roar increased, and we could distinctly hear 
the shouting. 

“ Be quick ! ” cried Andrea. For God’s sake be 
quick ! They will be here in a moment ! ” 

I looked to the door, and Pietro, seeing my 
thoughts, said : 

“ Not that way ! Here is another door, which 
leads along a passage into a side street.” 

He lifted the tapestry, and showed a tiny door, 
which he opened. I ran to old Orso, and shook him. 

‘‘Wake up!” I said; “wake up, and come with 
me ! ” 

“ What is it ” he asked. 

“ Never mind ; come with me ! ” 

I took his arm, and tried to lift him out of his 
chair, but he caught hold of the handles, and would 
not stir. 

“ I will not move,” he said. “ What is it ? ” 

“The mob is coming to sack the palace, and if 
they find you here they will kill you.” 


28 o 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


“ I will not move. I am Orso Orsi. They dare 
not touch me.” 

“Be quick! be quick!” screamed Andrea, from 
the window. “The first of them have appeared in 
the street. In a moment they will be here.” 

“ Quick ! quick ! ” cried Pietro. 

Now the roar had got so loud that it buzzed in 
one’s ears, and every instant it grew louder. 

“ Be quick ! be quick ! ” 

“You must come,” I said, and Pietro joined his 
prayers to my commands, but nothing would move 
the old man. 

“I tell you I will not fly. I am the head of my 
house. I am Orso Orsi. I will not fly like a dog 
before the rabble.” 

“For your son’s sake, — for our sake,” I implored. 
“ We shall be killed with you.” 

“You may go. The door is open for you. I will 
stay alone.” 

He seemed to have regained his old spirit. It was 
as if a last flame were flickering up. 

“We will not leave you,” I said. “I have been 
put by Checco to protect you, and if you are killed, I 
must be killed, too. Our only chance is to fly.” 

“ Quick ! quick ! ” cried Andrea. “ They are 
nearly here ! ” 

“O master, master,” cried Pietro, “accept the 
means he offers you ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


281 


‘^Be quick ! be quick ! '' 

Would you have me slink down a back passage, 
like a thief, in my own house ? Never ! '' 

“ They have reached the doors,'' cried Andrea. 

The noise was deafening below. The gates had 
been closed, and we heard a thunder of blows ; 
stones were thrown, sticks beaten against the iron ; 
then they seemed to take some great instrument, 
and pound against the locks. Again and again the 
blows were repeated, but, at last, there was a crash. 
A mighty shout broke from the people, and we heard 
a rush. I sprang to the door of the Orso's room, 
and locked and bolted it, then, calling the others to 
help me, I dragged a heavy chest against it. We 
placed another chest on the first, and dragged the 
bedstead up, pushing it against the chests. 

We were only just in time, for, like water rushing 
at once through every crevice, the mob surged up, 
and filled every corner of the house. They came to 
our door, and pushed it. To their surprise, it did 
not open. Outside some one cried : 

‘‘ It's locked ! " 

The hindrance excited them, and the crowd gath- 
ered greater outside. 

‘‘Break it open," they cried. 

Immediately, heavy blows thundered down on the 
lock and handle. 

“ For God's sake, come," I said, turning to Orso. 


282 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


He did not answer. There was no time to lose, 
and I could not conquer his obstinacy. 

“Then I shall force you,’' I cried, catching hold 
of both his arms, and dragging him from the chair. 
He held on as tight as he could, but his strength 
was nothing against mine. I caught hold of him, 
and was lifting him in my arms, when the door was 
burst open. The rush of people threw down the 
barricade, and the crowd surged into the room. It 
was too late. I made a rush for the little door with 
Orso, but I could not get to it. They crowded around 
me with a shout. 

“Take him,” I cried to Pietro, “while I defend 
you.” 

I drew my sword, but immediately a bludgeon fell 
on it, and it smashed in two. I gave a shout, and 
rushed at my assailants, but it was hopeless. I felt a 
crushing blow on my head. I sank down insensible. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


When I opened my eyes I found myself on a bed 
in a darkened room. By my side was sitting a 
woman. I looked at her, and wondered who she was. 

‘‘Who the devil are you I asked, somewhat im- 
politely. 

At the words some one else stepped forward and 
bent over me. I recognised Andrea ; then I recol- 
lected what had occurred. 

“ Where is the Orso ? ” I asked. “ Is he safe ? ” 

“ Do you feel better ? '' he said. 

“ I am all right. Where is the Orso ? I tried to 
sit up, but my head swam. I felt horribly sick, and 
sank back. 

“ What is the matter I moaned. 

“ Only a broken head,” said Andrea, with a little 
smile. “ If you had been a real serving-man, instead 
of a fine gentleman masquerading, you wouldn’t think 
twice about it.” 

“ Have pity on my infirmities, dear boy,” I mur- 
mured, faintly. “ I don’t pretend that my head is as 
wooden as yours.” 


283 


284 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Then he explained. 

‘‘When you were beaten down they made a rush 
for the old master and bore him off.'’ 

“ Oh ! ” I cried. “ I promised Checco to look after 
him. What will he think ! ” 

“ It was not your fault.” At the same time he 
renewed the bandages round my head and put cool- 
ing lotions on. 

“ Good boy ! ” I said, as I enjoyed the cold water 
on my throbbing head. 

“ When I saw the blows come down on your head, 
and you fall like a stone, I thought you were killed. 
With you soft-headed people one never knows ! ” 

“ It appears to amuse you,” I said. “ But what 
happened afterwards ? ” 

“ In the excitement of their capture they paid no 
attention to us, and my uncle and I dragged you 
through the little door, and eventually carried you 
here. You are a weight ! ” 

“ And where am I ” 

“ In my mother’s house, where you are requested 
to stay as long as it suits your convenience.” 

“ And Orso ? ” 

“ My uncle went out to see, and reports that they 
have put him in prison. As yet, no harm has been * 
done him. The palace has been sacked ; nothing 
but the bare walls remain.” 

At that moment Pietro came in, panting. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


285 


‘‘Two of the conspirators have been taken/' 

“ My God, not Checco or Matteo ! " 

“ No ; Pietro Albanese and Marco Scorsacana." 

“ How did the others escape ? " 

“ I don't know. All I heard was that the horse of 
Marco broke down, and Pietro refused to leave him. 
At a village close to the frontier, Pietro was recog- 
nised, and they were both arrested and sent here for 
the sake of the reward." 

“ My God ! " 

“ They were brought into the town on asses, with 
their hands tied behind their backs, and the mob 
yelled with derision, and threw stones and refuse at 
them." 

“ And now 1 " 

“They have been taken to the prison, and — " 

“ Well " 

“The execution is to take place to-morrow." 

I groaned. Pietro Albanese and Marco had been 
like Damon and Pythias. I shuddered as I thought 
of the fate in store for them. They had been con- 
spicuous in their hatred of the count, and it was they 
who had helped to throw the body into the piazza. 
I knew there would be no forgiveness in Caterina's 
heart, and all the night I wondered what vengeance 
she was meditating. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Next day I insisted on getting up. Andrea helped 
me to dress, and we went out together. 

“ No one would mistake you for a gentleman to- 
day,’’ he laughed. 

My clothes were shabby enough in the first in- 
stance, and in the scuffle of the previous day they 
had received usage which did not improve them ; 
moreover, I had a two days’ beard, and my head 
muffled up in bandages, so that I could well imagine 
that my appearance was not attractive. But I was 
too sore at heart to smile at his remark, or to make 
retort. I could not help thinking of the terrible 
scene which awaited us. 

We found the piazza crowded. Opposite the 
Riario Palace was erected a stage, on which were 
seats, but these were empty. The sky was blue, 
the sun shone merrily on the people, and the air was 
soft and warm. Nature was full of peace and good- 
will ; but in men’s hearts was lust of blood. ... A 
flourish of trumpets announced the approach of 
286 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 28 / 

Caterina and her suite. Amid ringing cheers she 
entered the square, accompanied by her half-brother, 
the Duke of Milan, and by the Protonotary Savello. 
They took their seats on the platform, the duke on 
her right, Savello on her left. She turned to the 
priest and talked most amiably to him ; he smiled 
and bowed, but his agitation was shown by the 
twitching of his hands fidgetting with the lappet 
of his cloak. 

A beating of drums was heard, followed by a 
sudden silence. A guard of soldiers entered the 
piazza, tramping steadily with heavy footsteps ; then 
two steps behind them a single figure, without a 
doublet, hatless, his shirt all torn, his hands tied 
behind his back. It was Marco Scorsacana. The 
foul mob broke out into a yell at the sight of him ; 
he walked slowly, but with his head proudly erect, 
paying no heed to the hooting and hissing which 
rang in his ears. On each side walked a barefooted 
monk, bearing a crucifix. . . . He was followed by 
another troop of soldiers, and after them came 
another bareheaded figure, his hands also tied be- 
hind his back ; but he kept his head bent over his 
chest, and his eyes fixed on the ground, shrinking at 
the yells of derision. Poor Pietro ! He, too, was 
accompanied by the solemn monks ; the procession 
was finished by the drummers, beating their drums 
incessantly, maddeningly. 


288 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


They advanced to the platform, and there, the 
soldiers falling back, the prisoners were left standing 
before their judges. 

“ Marco Scorsacana and Pietro Albanese,'* said the 
countess, in a clear, calm voice, ‘‘you have been 
found guilty of murder and treason ; and as it was 
you who cast the body of my dear husband out of 
the Palace window on to the hard stones of the 
piazza, so you are sentenced to be hanged from that 
same window, and your bodies cast down on to the 
hard stones of the piazza.’' 

A murmur of approval came from the populace. 
Pietro winced, but Marco turned to him and said 
something which I could not hear ; but I saw the 
glance of deep affection, and the answering smile of 
Pietro as he seemed to take courage. 

The countess turned to Savello. 

“ Do you not agree that the judgment is just } ” 

“ Most just ! ” he whispered. 

“ The protonotary says, ‘ Most just ! ’ ” she called 
aloud, so that all should hear. The man winced. 

Marco looked at him scornfully, and said, “ I 
would ten times rather be in my place than in 
yours.” 

The countess smiled at the priest, and said, “You 
see, I carry out the will of God in doing unto others 
as they themselves have done.” 

She made a sign, and the two men were led to the 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 289 

Palace and up the stairs. The window of the Hall 
of Nymphs was thrown open, and a beam thrust 
out, to which was attached a rope. Pietro appeared 
at the window, with one end of the rope around his 
neck. 

Good-bye, sweet friend,” he said to Marco. 

‘‘Good-bye, Pietrino,” and Marco kissed him. 

Then two men hurled him from the sill, and he 
swung in mid-air ; a horrible movement passed 
through his body, and it swayed from side to side. 
There was a pause ; a man stretched out with a 
sword and cut the rope. From the people came a 
huge* shout, and they caught the body as it fell, and 
tore it to pieces. In a few minutes Marco appeared 
at the window, but he boldly sprang out into space, 
needing no help. In a little while he was a hanging 
corpse, and in a little while more the mob had fallen 
on him like wolves. I hid my face in my hands. It 
was awful ! O God ! O God ! 

Then another beating of drums broke through the 
tumult. I looked up, wondering what was coming. 
A troop of soldiers entered the square, and, after 
them, an ass led by a fool with bells and bauble ; on 
the ass was a miserable old man, Orso Orsi. 

“Oh,” I groaned, “what are they going to do to 
him .? ” 

A shout of laughter burst from the mob, and the 
clown flourished his bauble and bowed acknowledg- 


290 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

ments from side to side. A halt was made before 
the stage, and Caterina spoke again. 

Orso Orsi, you have been sentenced to see 
your palace destroyed before your eyes, — stone by 
stone.'' 

The people shouted, and a rush was made for the 
Orsi Palace. The old man said nothing and showed 
no sign of hearing or feeling. I hoped that all sen- 
sation had left him. The procession moved on until 
it came to the old house, which stood already like a 
wreck, for the pillagers had left nothing which could 
be moved. Then the work began, and stone by stone 
the mighty building was torn to pieces. Orso looked 
on indifferently at the terrible work ; for no greater 
humiliation can be offered to the Italian nobleman 
than this. The Orsi Palace had stood three hundred 
years, and the most famous architects, craftsmen, 
and artists had worked on it. And now it was 
gone. 

The old man was brought back into the piazza, 
and once more the cruel woman spoke. 

You have received punishment for yourself, Orso, 
and now you are to receive punishment for your son. 
Make room ! " 

And the soldiers, repeating her words, cried : 

Make room ! " 

The people were pushed and hustled back till they 
were crammed against the house walls, leaving in the 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


291 


centre an enormous empty space. Then a flourish 
of trumpets, and the people made an opening at the 
end of the square to allow the passage of a horse and 
man, the horse — a huge black stallion — prancing 
and plunging ; and on each side a man was holding 
the bridle. On his back sat a big man, dressed all 
in flaming red, and a red hood covered his head and 
face, leaving two apertures for the eyes. A horrified 
whisper ran around the square. 

The hangman ! 

In the centre of the piazza he stopped. Caterina 
addressed the Orso. 

‘‘ Have you anything to say, Orso Orsi } ” 

At last he seemed to hear ; he looked at her, and 
then, with all the strength he had, hurled the word 
at her : 

Bastard ! ” 

She flushed angrily and made a sign. Two men 
seized the old man and dragged him off the mule ; 
they caught hold of his legs, throwing him to the 
ground, and with a thick rope tied his ankles 
together. 

At this I understood. I was seized with sudden 
horror, and I cried out. Obeying a sudden impulse, 
I started forward ; I don’t know what I was going to 
do ; I felt I must protect him, or die with him. I 
started forward, but Andrea threw his arms around 
me and held me back. 


292 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


‘‘ Let me go/' I said, struggling. 

‘‘ Don’t be a fool ! ” he whispered. “ What can 
you do against all these ? ” 

It was no use ; I gave way. O God ! that I 
should stand by and see this awful thing and be 
utterly powerless ! I wondered the people could 
suffer this last atrocity ; I thought they must scream, 
and rush to save the wretched man. But they 
watched, — they watched eagerly. . . . 

By his feet they dragged him to the horse, and the 
end of the rope around his ankles they tied to the 
horse’s tail and about the rider’s waist. 

“ Ready ? ” cried the hangman. 

‘‘ Yes ! ” answered the soldiers. 

They all sprang back ; the hangman dug the spurs 
into his horse. The people gave a huge shout, and 
the fiery beast went careering around the square at 
full tilt. The awful burden dragging behind terrified 
him, and with head strained forward and starting eyes 
he galloped madly. The mob urged him on with 
cries, and his rider dug the spurs in deeply ; the 
pavement was scattered with blood. 

God knows how long the wretched man lived. I 
hope he died at once. At last the brute’s furious 
career was stopped, the ropes were cut, the corpse 
fell back, and, the people again making passage, horse 
and rider disappeared. In the middle of the piazza, 
in a pool of blood, lay a shapeless mass. It was 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 293 

ordered that it should be left there till nightfall as 
an example to evildoers. 

Andrea wanted to come away, but I insisted on 
staying to see what happened more. But it was the 
end, for Caterina turned to Savello, and said : 

“ I do not forget that all power comes from God, 
Monsignor, and I wish solemnly to render thanks to 
the Divine Majesty, who has saved me, my children, 
and the State. Therefore, I shall order a grand 
procession which shall march around the town and 
afterwards hear mass at the cathedral.'’ 

‘‘It shows, madam," replied Savello, “that you 
are a pious and truly Christian woman." 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


When it was night, and the piazza deserted, 
Andrea and I and the old steward went out and 
made our way to the place where the horrible corpse 
was lying. We wrapped it in a long black cloth and 
took it up silently, bearing it to the church where for 
generations the Orsi had been buried. A dark-robed 
monk met us in the nave and led the way to a door, 
which he opened; then, as if frightened, left us. We 
found ourselves in the cloisters. We laid the body 
down under an arch and advanced into the centre, 
where was a plot of green scattered over with little 
crosses. We took spades and began to dig ; a thin 
rain drizzled down, and the ground was stiff and 
clayey. It was hard work and I sweated ; I took off 
my coat and allowed the rain to fall on me unpro- 
tected ; I was soon wet to the skin. Silently Andrea 
and I turned up the soil, while Pietro, beneath the 
cloisters, watched by the body and prayed. We were 
knee-deep now, and still we threw up heavy spadefuls 
of clay. At last I said : 

“ It is enough.'’ 

294 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


295 


We climbed out and went to the body. We took 
it up and bore it to the grave, and reverently we laid 
it in. Pietro placed a crucifix on the old master’s 
breast, and then we began to pile in the earth. 

And so, without priests, without mourning, in the 
dead of night, and by the drizzling rain, was buried 
Orso Orsi, the great head of the family. In his 
time he had been excellent in war and in all the 
arts of peace. He had been noted for his skill in 
commerce ; in politics he had been the first of his 
city, and, besides, he had been a great and generous 
patron of the arts. But he lived too long, and died 
thus miserably. 

Next day I set about thinking what I should do. 
I could be of no more use to any one in Forli ; 
indeed, I had never been of use, for I had only 
stood by and watched while those I loved and 
honoured were being put to cruel deaths. And now 
I must see that my presence did not harm my kind 
hosts. Caterina had thrown into prison some fifty 
of those who had taken part in the rebellion, not- 
withstanding her solemn promise of amnesty, and I 
knew well enough that, if I were discovered, Pietro 
and Andrea would suffer as severe a punishment as 
myself. They gave no sign that my presence was 
a menace to them, but in the woman’s eyes, Andrea’s 
mother, I saw an anxious look, and at any unex- 
pected sound she would start and look fearfully at 


296 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

me. I made up my mind to go immediately. When 
I told Andrea, he insisted on coming with me, and, 
although I painted the danger in lively colours, he 
would not be dissuaded. The next day was market- 
day, and we resolved to slip out in a cart as soon 
as the gates were opened. We would be taken 
for tradesmen, and no one would pay attention 
to us. 

I was anxious to see what was happening in the 
town and what people were talking of ; but I thought 
it prudent not to venture out, for my disguise might 
be seen through, and if I were discovered I knew 
well what to expect. So I sat at home twiddling 
my thumbs and chattering with Andrea. At last, 
getting tired of doing nothing, and seeing the good 
woman about to scrub out her courtyard, I volun- 
teered to do it for her. I got a broom and a pail 
of water and began sweeping away vigorously, 
while Andrea stood in the doorway scoffing* For 
a little while I forgot the terrible scene in the 
piazza. 

There was a knock at the door. We stopped and 
listened ; the knock was repeated, and as no answer 
was given, the latch was raised and the door opened. 
A servant-maid walked in and carefully closed it be- 
hind her. I recognised her at once ; it was Giulia's 
maid. I shrank back, and Andrea stood in front of 
me. His mother went forward. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


297 


And pray, madam, what can I do for you ? ” 

The maid did not answer, but stepped past her. 

‘‘ There is a serving-man here for whom I have 
a message.” 

She came straight towards me, and handed me a 
piece of paper ; then, without another word, slid back 
to the door and slipped out. 

The note contained four words, ** Come to me to- 
night,” and the handwriting was Giulia’s. A strange 
feeling came over me as I looked at it, and my 
hand trembled a little. . . . Then I began ponder- 
ing. Why did she want me ^ I could not think, 
and it occurred to me that perhaps she wished to 
give me up to the countess. I knew she hated me, 
but I could not think her as vile as that ; after all, 
she was her father’s daughter, and Bartolomeo was a 
gentleman. Andrea looked at me, questioningly. 

‘‘ It is an invitation from my greatest enemy to 
put myself in her hands.” 

But you will not } ” 

‘‘Yes,” I said, “I will.” 

“ Why.?” 

“ Because it is a woman.” 

“ But do you think she would betray you .? ” 

“ She might.” 

“ And you are going to take the risk .? ” 

“ I think I should be glad to prove her so utterly 
worthless.” 


298 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Andrea looked at me, open-mouthed ; he could not 
understand. An idea struck him. 

“ Are you in love with her ? '' 

‘‘ No ; I was.*’ . 

“And now.?” 

“ Now, I do not even hate her.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


The night came, and when every one had gone to 
bed, and the town was quiet, I said to Andrea, ‘‘Wait 
for me here, and if I do not come back in two hours 
you will know — '' 

He interrupted me. 

“ I am coming with you.’' 

“Nonsense!” I said. “I don’t know what dan- 
ger there may be, and there is no object in your 
exposing yourself to it.” 

“Where you go, I will go, too.” 

I argued with him, but he was an obstinate youth. 
. . . We walked along the dark streets, running like 
thieves around corners when we heard the heavy 
footsteps of the watch. The Palazzo Aste was all 
dark ; we waited outside a little while, but no one 
came, and I dared not knock. Then I remembered 
the side door. I still had the key, and I took it 
from my pocket. 

“Wait outside,” I said to Andrea. 

“ No, I am coming with you.” 

“ Perhaps there is an ambush.” 

299 


300 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


‘‘Two are more likely to escape than one/' 

I put the key in the lock, and, as I did so, my 
heart beat and my hand trembled, but not with fear. 
The key turned, and I pushed the door open. We 
entered, and walked up the stairs. Sensations which 
I had forgotten crowded upon me, and my heart 
turned sick. . . . We came to an anteroom dimly 
lit. I signed to Andrea to wait, and myself passed 
into the room I knew too well. It was that in which 
I had last seen Giulia, — the Giulia I had loved, — 
and nothing was altered in it. The same couch stood 
in the centre, and on it lay Giulia, sleeping. She 
started up. 

“Filippo!" 

“ At your service, madam." 

“ Lucia recognised you in the street yesterday, 
and she followed you to the house in which you are 
staying." 

“Yes." 

“ My father sent me a message that you were still 
here, and, if I wanted help, would give it me." 

“ I will do whatever I can for you," 

What a fool I was to come ! My head was in a 
whirl, my heart was bursting. My God ! she was 
beautiful 1 I looked at her, and suddenly I knew 
that all the dreary indifference I had built up had 
melted away at the first look into her eyes. And I 
was terrified. . . . My love was not dead ; it was 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


301 


alive, alive ! Oh, how I adored that woman ! I 
burned to take her in my arms, and cover her soft 
mouth with kisses. 

Oh, why had I come ? I was mad. I cursed my 
weakness. . . . And, when I saw her standing there, 
cold and indifferent as ever, I felt so furious a rage 
within me that I could have killed her. And I felt 
sick with love. . . . 

‘‘Messer Filippo,’’ she said, “will you help me 
now ? I have been warned by one of the countess’s 
women that the guard have orders to arrest me to- 
morrow ; and I know what the daughter of Barto- 
lomeo Moratini may expect. I must fly to-night, — 
at once.” 

“ I will help you,” I answered. 

“What shall I do.?” 

“ I can disguise you as a common woman. The 
mother of my friend Andrea will lend you clothes ; 
and Andrea and I will accompany you. Or, if you 
prefer, after we have safely passed the gates, he shall 
accompany you alone, wherever you wish to go.” 

“ Why will you not come .? ” 

“I feared my presence would make the journey 
more tedious to you.” 

“ And to you .? ” 

“ To me it would be a matter of complete indiffer- 
ence.” 

She looked at me a moment, then she cried ; 


302 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ No, I will not come ! 

‘‘Why not?” 

“Because you hate me.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“ I should have thought my sentiments were of no 
consequence.” 

“I will n,ot be helped by you. You hate me too 
much. I will stay in Forli.” 

“You are your own mistress. . . . Why do you 
mind ? ” 

“ Why do I mind ? Shall I tell you ? ” She came 
close up to me. “ Because — because I love you.” 

My head swam, and I felt myself stagger. ... I 
did not know what was happening. 

“ Filippo ! ” 

“ Giulia ! ” 

I opened my arms, and she fell into them, and I 
held her close to my heart, and I covered her with 
kisses. ... I covered her mouth and eyes and neck 
with kisses. 

“ Giulia ! Giulia ! ” 

But I wrenched myself away, and, taking hold of 
her shoulders, said, almost savagely : 

“ But this time I must have you altogether. 
Swear that you will — ” 

She lifted her sweet face and smiled, and nestling 
close up to me, whispered ; 

“ Will you marry me ? ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


303 


I kissed her again and again. 

I loved you always/' I said. I tried to hate 
you, but I could not." 

‘‘ Do you remember that night at the Palace ? 
You said you had never cared for me." 

‘‘Ah, yes ! but you did not believe me." 

“ I felt it was not true, but I did not know ; and it 
pained me. And then, Claudia — " 

“ I was so angry with you, I would have done 
anything to revenge myself ; but still I loved 
you." 

“ But Claudia — you loved her, too " 

“No," I protested, “I hated her and despised her; 
but I tried to forget you ; and I wanted you to feel 
certain that I no longer cared for you." 

“ I hate her." 

“ Forgive me," I said. 

“ I forgive you everything," she answered. 

I kissed her passionately ; and I did not remember 
that I too had something to forgive. 

The time flew on, and when a ray of light pierced 
through the windows I started up in surprise. 

“We must make haste," I said. I went into the 
anteroom and found Andrea fast asleep. I shook 
him. 

“At what time do the gates open.^^" I asked. 

He rubbed his eyes, and, on a repetition of the 
question, answered, “ Five ! " 


304 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


It was half past four ; we had no time to lose. I 
thought for a minute. Andrea would have to go to 
his mother’s and find the needful clothes, then come 
back ; it would all take time, and time meant life and 
death. Then, the sight of a young and beautiful 
woman might arouse the guard’s attention, and 
Giulia might be recognised. 

An idea struck me. 

“ Undress ! ” I said to Andrea. 

‘‘ What.?” 

“ Undress ! Quickly.” 

He looked at me blankly ; I signed to him, and, as 
he was not rapid enough, I tore off his coat ; then he 
understood, and in a minute he was standing in his 
shirt while I had walked off with his clothes. I 
handed them to Giulia and came back. Andrea was 
standing in the middle of the room, the very picture 
of misery. He looked very ridiculous. 

‘‘ Look here, Andrea,” I said. ‘‘ I have given 
your clothes to a lady, who is going to accompany 
me, instead of you. Do you see .? ” 

‘‘ Yes, and what am I to do .? ” 

‘‘You can stay with your mother for the present, 
and then, if you like, you can join me at my house 
in Citta di Gastello.” 

“And now.?” 

“ Oh, now you can go home.” 

He did not answer, but looked at me, dubiously. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 305 

then at his bare legs and his shirt, then again at me. 
I pretended not to understand. 

“You seem troubled, my dear Andrea. What is 
the matter ? 

He pointed to his shirt. 

“Well.?^^ I said. 

“ It is usual to go about in clothes.’’ 

“A broad-minded youth like you should be free 
from such prejudice,” I answered, gravely. “On 
such a morning you will find life much pleasanter 
without hose and doublet.” 

“ Common decency — ” 

“ My dear boy, are you not aware that our first 
parents were content with fig-leaves, and are you not 
satisfied with a whole shirt ? Besides, have you not 
a fine pair of legs and a handsome body ; what are 
you ashamed of ” 

“ Every one will follow me.” 

“ All the more reason to have something to show 
them.” 

“ The guard will lock me up.” 

“ How will the jailor’s daughter be able to resist 
you in that costume ? ” 

Then another idea struck me, and I said : 

“ Well, Andrea, I am grieved to find you of so 
unpoetical a turn of mind ; but I will deny you 
nothing.” I went to Giulia, and taking the clothes 
she had just cast off, brought them to Andrea. 


3o6 the making of a saint. 

“There 

He gave a cry of delight, but, on seizing them and 
discovering petticoats and flounces, his face fell. I 
leant against the wall and laughed till my sides 
ached. 

Then Giulia appeared, a most fascinating serving- 

boy. . . . 

“ Good-bye,'' I cried, and hurried down the stairs. 
We marched boldly to the city gate, and, with beat- 
ing hearts and innocent countenances, passed through 
and found ourselves in the open country. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


The Orsi and the Moratini had taken my advice 
and gone to Citta di Gastello ; so it was to that city 
we directed our way, and eventually reached it in 
safety. I did not know where Bartolomeo Moratini 
was, and I did not wish to take Giulia to my own 
house, so I placed her in a Benedictine convent, the 
superior of which, on hearing my name, promised to 
give her guest every care. 

Then I went to the old palace, which I had not 
seen for so many years. I had been too excited to 
get really home to notice anything of the streets as 
I passed through them ; but as I came in view of the 
well-remembered walls, I stopped, overcome with 
strange emotions. ... I remembered the day when 
news had been brought me that the old Vitelli, who 
was then ruler, of Gastello, had murmured certain 
things about me which caused my neck to itch un- 
comfortably, — and, upon this, I had entrusted my 
little brother to a relative, who was one of the canons 
of the cathedral, and the palace to my steward, and, 
mounting my horse, ridden off with all possible haste. 
307 


3o8 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


I had supposed that a few months would calm the 
angry Vitelli, but the months had lengthened out 
into years, and his death had come before his for- 
giveness. But now I really was back, and I did not 
mean to go away ; my travels had taught me caution, 
and my intrigues at Forli given me enough excite- 
ment for some time. Besides, I was going to marry, 
and rear a family ; for, as if Fortune could not give 
scantily, I had gained a love as well as a home, and 
everything I wished was granted. 

My meditations were interrupted. 

“ Corpo di Bacco ! '' 

It was Matteo, and in a moment I was in his arms. 

‘‘ I was just asking myself what that fool was star- 
ing at this house for, and thinking of telling him it 
was impolite to stare, when I recognised the horse’s 
owner.” 

I laughed, and shook his hand again. 

‘‘ Well, Filippo, I am sure we shall be very pleased 
to offer you hospitality.” 

“ You are most kind.” 

‘‘ We have annexed the whole place, but I daresay 
you will be able to find room somewhere. But 
come in.” 

Thanks,” I said, if you do not mind.” 

I found Checco, Bartolomeo, and his two sons 
sitting together. They jumped up when they saw me. 

‘‘ What news ? What news ? ” they asked. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


309 


Then suddenly I remembered the terrible story 
I had to tell, for in my own happiness I had for- 
gotten everything that went before. I suddenly 
became grave. 

Bad news,’’ I said. ‘‘Bad news.” 

“ O God ! I have been foreboding it. Every night 
I have dreamed awful things.” 

“ Checco,” I answered, “ I have done all I could ; 
but, alas ! it has been of no avail. You left me as 
a protector, and I have been able to protect no one.” 

“ Go on ! ” 

Then I began my story. I told them how the 
council had opened the gates, surrendering uncon- 
ditionally, and how the countess had sallied forth 
in triumph. That was nothing. If there had been 
no worse news for them than that ! But Checco 
clenched his hands as I related the sacking of his 
palace. And I told him how old Orso had refused 
to fly, and had been seized, while I had lain senseless 
on the floor. 

“ You did your best, Filippo,” said Checco. “ You 
could do nothing more. But afterwards 1 ” 

I told them how Marco Scorsacana and Pietro 
had been taken prisoners, and led into the town like 
thieves caught in the act ; how the crowd had gath- 
ered together, and how they had been brought to 
the square and hanged from the Palace window, and 
their bodies torn to pieces by the people. 


310 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


O God ! uttered Checco. ‘‘ And all this is my 
fault ! 

I told them that the old Orso was brought forward 
and taken to his palace, and before his eyes it was 
torn down, stone after stone, till only a heap of ruins 
marked the site. 

Checco gave a sob. 

“ My palace, my home ! 

And then, as if the blow was too great, he bent 
his head and burst into tears. 

‘‘Do not weep yet, Checco,'’ I said. “You will 
have cause for tears, presently.” 

He looked up. 

“ What more ? ” 

“Your father.” 

“ Filippo ! ” 

He started up, and, stepping back, stood against 
the wall, his arms against it, outstretched, with white 
and haggard face and staring eyes, like a hunted 
beast at bay. 

I told him how they had taken his father and 
bound him, and thrown him down, and tied him to 
the savage beast, and how he had been dragged 
along till his blood spattered on the pavement and 
his soul left him. 

Checco uttered a most awful groan, and, looking 
up to heaven, as if to call it in witness, cried : 

“ O God ! ” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


3II 


Then, sinking into a chair, he buried his face in 
his hands, and in his agony swayed from side to 
side. Matteo went up to him and put his hand on 
his shoulder, trying to comfort him ; but he motioned 
him aside. 

‘‘ Let me be.’’ 

He rose from his seat, and we saw that his eyes 
were tearless, for his grief was too great for weeping. 
Then, with his hands before him like a blind man, 
he staggered to the door and left us. 

Scipione, the weak man, was crying. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


One does not really feel much grief at other 
people’s sorrows ; one tries, and puts on a melancholy 
face, — thinking oneself brutal for not caring more ; 
but one cannot, and it is better, for if one grieved 
too deeply at other people’s tears, life would be un- 
endurable; and every man has sufficient sorrows of 
his own without taking to heart his neighbour’s. The 
explanation of all this is that, three days after my 
return to Citta di Gastello, I was married to Giulia. 

Now I remember nothing more. I have a con- 
fused idea of great happiness ; I lived in an intoxica- 
tion, half fearing it was all a dream, enchanted when 
anything occurred to assure me it was true. But the 
details of our life I have forgotten ; I remember I 
was happy. Is it not a curious irony that we should 
recall our miseries with such plainness, and that our 
happiness should pass over us so indistinctly that, 
when it has gone, we can scarcely realise that it ever 
existed ? It is as though Fortune were jealous of the 
little happiness she has given us, and, to revenge her- 
312 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


313 


self, blots it out of the memory, filling the mind with 
miseries past. 

But some things I recollect about others. I came 
across Ercole Piacentini and his wife Claudia. Gastello 
being his native place, he had gone there on the death 
of the count ; and now, although the Riarii were re- 
stored to power, he remained, presumably to watch 
our movements and report them at Forli. I inquired 
who he was, and after some difficulty discovered 
that he was the bastard of a Gastello nobleman and 
the daughter of a tradesman. I saw that he did not 
lie when he said he had in his veins as good blood as 
I. Still I did not think him a very desirable acquisi- 
tion to the town, and, as I was in some favour with 
the new lord, I determined to procure his expulsion. 
Matteo proposed picking a quarrel with him and 
killing him, but that was difficult, because the bold 
man had become singularly retiring, and it was almost 
impossible to meet him. The change was so notice- 
able that we could not help thinking he had received 
special instructions from Forli, and we determined to 
take care. 

I invited the Moratini to live with me, but they 
preferred to take a house of their own. The old 
man, when I asked him for his daughter’s hand, told 
me he wished no better son-in-law, and was very con- 
tented to see his daughter again settled under a man’s 
protection. Scipione and Alessandro were both most 


314 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


pleased, and they redoubled the affection they had 
felt for me before. It all made me extremely happy, 
for, after my long years of wandering, I yearned very 
much for the love of others, and the various affec- 
tions that surrounded me soothed and comforted me. 
From Giulia I could ask for nothing more, and I 
thought she really loved me, — of course not as I 
loved her, for that would have been impossible ; but 
I was happy. Sometimes I wondered perplexedly at 
the incident which had separated us, for I could 
understand nothing of it ; but I put it away from 
me. I did not want to understand ; I wanted only 
to forget. 

Then there were Checco and Matteo. The Orsi 
family had bought a palace in Gastello, and there 
they could have settled themselves happily enough 
had they not been driven on by an unextinguishable 
desire to regain what they had lost. Checco was 
rich even now, able to live as luxuriously as before, 
and in a little while he might have gained in Gastello 
as much power as he had lost in Forli, for the young 
Vitelli had been singularly attracted by him, and was 
already inclined to give trust to his counsels, but the 
wretched man was filled with sadness. All day his 
thoughts were in the town he loved so well, and now 
his love was increased tenfold. . . . Sometimes he 
would think of Forli before the troubles, when he 
was living a peaceful life surrounded by his friends. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 315 

and in mind he wandered through the quiet streets, 
every house of which he knew. He would go from 
room to room in his palace, looking at the pictures, 
the statues, the armour ; from the window at night 
he gazed upon the dark, silent town, with the houses 
rising like tall phantoms ; in the morning a silver 
mist covered the earth, and as it rose left the air cool 
and fresh. But when his house appeared before him, 
a bare heap of ruins, with the rain beating down on 
the roofless stones, he would bury his face in his 
hands, and so remain during long hours of misery. 
Sometimes he would review the stirring events, which 
began with the attempted assassination of himself and 
ended with the ride out of the gate by the river in 
the cold open country beyond, and, as they passed 
before him, he would wonder what he had done 
wrong, what he might have done differently. But 
he could alter nothing ; he saw no mistake other 
than of trusting the populace who vowed to follow 
him to death, and of trusting the friends who prom- 
ised to send him help. He had done his part, and 
what had followed was impossible to foresee. For- 
tune was against him, and that was all. . . . 

But he did not entirely give himself over to vain 
regrets ; he had opened up communication with Forli, 
and, through his spies, had learnt that the countess 
had imprisoned and put to death all those who had 
been in any way connected with the rebellion, and 


3i6 the making of a saint. 

that the town lay cowed, submissive as a whipped 
dog. And there was no hope for Checco from with- 
in, for his open partisans had suffered terrible pun- 
ishments, and the others were few and timid. Then 
Checco turned his attention to the rival States ; but 
everywhere he received rebuffs, for the power of 
Milan overshadowed them all, and they dared noth- 
ing while the Duke Lodovico was almighty. ‘‘Wait,’' 
they said, “till he has roused the jealousy of the 
greater States of Florence and Venice ; then will be 
your opportunity, and then will we willingly give you 
our help.” But Checco could not wait; every lost 
day seemed to him a year. He grew thin and hag- 
gard. Matteo tried to comfort him, but gradually 
Checco’s troubles weighed on him, too ; he lost his 
mirth and became as moody and silent as his cousin. 
So passed a year, full of anxiety and heartburning 
for them, full of the sweetest happiness for me. 

One day Checco came to me and said : 

“ Filippo, you have been very good to me ; now I 
want you to do me one more favour, and that shall 
be the last I will ask you.” 

“What is it.?” 

Then he expounded to me a scheme for interesting 
the Pope in his affairs. He knew how angry his 
Holiness had been, not only at the loss of the town, 
but also at the humiliation he had received through 
his lieutenant. There was a difficulty at the time 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


317 


between the Duke of Milan and Rome respecting 
certain rights of the former, and he did not think it 
unlikely that the Pope would be willing to break off 
negotiations and recover his advantage by making 
a sudden attack on Forli. Caterina’s tyranny had 
become insupportable, and there was no doubt that 
at the sight of Checco leading the papal army they 
would open their gates and welcome him as the 
Pope’s representative. 

I did not see of what use I could be, and I was 
very unwilling to leave my young wife. But Checco 
was so anxious that I should come, seeming to think 
I should be of such assistance, that I felt it would 
be cruel to refuse. Moreover, I reckoned a month 
would bring me back to Gastello, and if the parting 
was bitter, how sweet would be the return ! And I 
had certain business of my own in Rome, which 
I had delayed for months because I could not bear 
the thought of separation from Giulia. So I decided 
to go. 

A few days later we were riding towards Rome. 
I was sad, for it was the first time I had left my wife 
since our marriage, and the parting had been even 
more painful than I expected. A thousand times 
I had been on the verge of changing my mind and 
saying I would not go ; but I could not, for Checco’s 
sake. I was also a little sad because I thought 
Giulia was not so pained as I was, but then I chid 


318 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


myself for my folly. I expected too much. After 
all, it was only four short weeks, and she was still 
too great a child to feel very deeply. It is only when 
one is old, or has greatly suffered, that one’s emotions 
are really powerful. 

We reached Rome and set about soliciting an 
audience from the Pope. I cannot remember the 
countless interviews we had with minor officials, how 
we were driven from cardinal to cardinal, the hours 
we spent in anterooms waiting for a few words from 
some great man. I used to get so tired that I could 
have dropped off to sleep standing, but Checco was 
so full of eagerness that I had to accompany him 
from place to place. The month passed, and we had 
done nothing. I suggested going home, but Checco 
implored me to stay, assuring me that the business 
would be finished in a fortnight. I remained, and 
the negotiations dragged their weary length through 
weeks and weeks. Now a ray of hope lighted our 
struggles, and Checco would become excited and 
cheerful ; now the hope would be dashed to the 
ground, and Checco begin to despair. The month 
had drawn itself out into three, and I saw clearly 
enough that nothing would come of our endeavours. 
The conferences with the duke were still going on, 
each party watching the other, trying by means of 
untruth and deceit and bribery to gain the advantage. 
The King of Naples was brought in ; Florence and 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


319 


Venice began to send ambassadors to and fro, and no 
one knew what would be the result of it all. 

At last, one day, Checco came to me, and threw 
himself on my bed. 

‘‘ It’s no good,” he said, in a tone of despair. It 
is all up.” 

‘‘I’m very sorry, Checco.” 

“You had better go home now. You can do 
nothing here. Why should I drag you after me in 
my unhappiness } ” 

“ But you, Checco, if you can do no good, why will 
not you come, too 

“ I am better here than at Castello. Here I am 
at the centre of things, and I will take heart. War 
may break out any day, and then the Pope will be 
more ready to listen to me.” 

I saw it was no use that I should stay, and I saw 
I could not persuade him to come with me, so I 
packed up my things, and, bidding him good-bye, 
started on the homeward journey. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


What shall I say of the eagerness with which I 
looked forward to seeing my dear wife, the rapture 
with which, at last, I clasped her in my arms ? 

A little later I walked out to find Matteo. He 
was quite astonished to see me. 

We did not expect you so soon.” 

‘‘ No,” I answered ; thought I should not arrive 
till after to-morrow, but I was so impatient to get 
home, that I hurried on without stopping, and here 
I am.” 

I shook his hand heartily, I was so pleased and 
happy. 

“ Er — have you been home ? ” 

‘‘Of course,” I answered, smiling; “it was the 
first thing I thought of.” 

I was not sure ; I thought a look of relief came 
over Matteo’ s face. But why ? I could not under- 
stand, but I thought it of no consequence, and it 
passed from my memory. I told Matteo the news 
320 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


321 


I had, and left him. I wished to get back to my 
wife. 

On my way I happened to see Claudia Piacentini 
coming out of a house. I was very surprised ; for I 
knew that my efforts had succeeded, and Ercole’s 
banishment decreed. I supposed the order had not 
yet been issued. I was going to pass the lady with- 
out acknowledgment, for since my marriage she had 
never spoken to me, and I could well understand 
why she did not want to. To my astonishment, she 
stopped me. 

Ah, Messer Filippo ! ” 

I bowed, profoundly. 

“ How is it that now you never speak to me ? 
Are you so angry with me ? 

“ No one can be angry with so beautiful a woman.’' 

She flushed, and I felt I had said a stupid thing, 
for I had made remarks too similar on another occa- 
sion. I added, ‘‘ But I have been away.” 

I know. Will you not come in ” She pointed 
to the house from which she had just issued. 

But I shall be disturbing you, for you were going 
out.” 

She smiled as she replied : I saw you pass my 
house a little while ago ; I guessed you were going 
to Matteo d’Orsi, and I waited for you on your 
return.” 

“You are most kind. ” 


322 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I wondered why she was so anxious to see me. 
Perhaps she knew of her husband’s approaching 
banishment, and the cause of it. 

We went in and sat down. 

“ Have you been home ? ” she asked. 

It was the same question as Matteo had asked. I 
gave the same answer. 

‘‘It was the first thing I thought of.” 

“Your wife must have been — surprised to see 
you.” 

“ And delighted.” 

“ Ah !” She crossed her hands and smiled. 

I wondered what she meant. 

“You were not expected for two days, I think.” 

“ You know my movements very well. I am 
pleased to find you take such interest in me.” 

“ Oh, it is not I alone. The whole town takes in- 
terest in you. You have been a most pleasant topic 
of conversation.” 

“ Really ! ” I was getting a little angry. “ And 
what has the town to say of me ? ” 

“ Oh, I do not want to trouble your peace of 
mind.” 

“ Will you have the goodness to tell me what you 
mean ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled, enigmat- 
ically. 

“ Well ? ” 


I said. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


323 


If you insist, I will tell you. They say that you 
are a complaisant husband.'' 

‘‘That is a lie ! " 

“You are not polite," she answered, calmly. 

“ How dare you say such things, you impudent 
woman } " 

“ My good sir, it is true, perfectly true. Ask 
Matteo." 

Suddenly I remembered Matteo's question, and his 
look of relief. A sudden fear ran through me. I 
took hold of Claudia^s wrists, and said : 

“ What do you mean } What do you mean ? 

“ Leave go ; you hurt me ! " 

“Answer, I tell you. I know you are dying to 
tell me. Is this why you lay in wait for me, and 
brought me here.^ Tell me." 

A sudden transformation took place in Claudia ; 
rage and hate broke out, and contorted her face, so 
that one would not have recognised it. 

“ Do you suppose you can escape the ordinary fate 
of husbands } " She broke into a savage laugh. 

“It is a lie. You slander Giulia, because you are 
yourself impure." 

“You were willing enough to take advantage of 
that impurity. Do you suppose Giulia's character 
has altered because you have married her.? She 
made her first husband a cuckold, and do you suppose 
that she has suddenly turned virtuous .? You fool ! " 


324 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


‘‘ It is a lie. I will not believe a word of it.'' 

The whole town has been ringing with her love 
for Giorgio dall' Aste." 

I gave a cry ; it was for him that she abandoned 
me before. . . . 

‘‘ Ah, you believe me now ! " 

Listen ! " I said. “ If this is not true, I swear 
by all the saints that I will kill you." 

‘‘ Good ; if it is not true, kill me. But, by all the 
saints, I swear it is true, true, true ! " She repeated 
the words in triumph, and each one fell like the stab 
of a dagger in my heart. 

I left her. As I walked home, I fancied the peo- 
ple were looking at me, and smiling. Once I was 
on the verge of going up to a man, and asking him 
why he laughed, but I contained myself. How I 
was suffering ! I remembered that Giulia had not 
seemed so pleased to see me ; at the time, I chid 
myself, and called myself exacting, but was it true } 
I fancied she turned away her lips when I was im- 
printing my passionate kisses on them. I told my- 
self I was a fool, but was it true } I remembered 
a slight movement of withdrawal, when I clasped 
her in my arms. Was it true } O God, was it 
true } 

I thought of going to Matteo, but I could not. 
He knew her before her marriage ; he would be 
willing to accept the worst that was said of her. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

How could I be so disturbed at the slanders of a 
wicked, jealous woman ? I wished I had never known 
Claudia, never given her reason to take this revenge 
on me. Oh, it was cruel ! But I would not believe 
it ; I had such trust in Giulia, such love. She could 
not betray me, when she knew what passionate love 
was poured down upon her. It would be too un- 
grateful. And I had done so much for her, but I 
did not wish to think of that. . . . All that I had 
done had been for pure love and pleasure, and I 
required no thanks. But, surely, if she had no love, 
she had at least some tender feeling for me ; she 
would not give her honour to another. Ah, no, I 
would not believe it. But, was it true 1 O God, was 
it true } 

I found myself at home, and suddenly I remem- 
bered the old steward, whom I had left in charge of 
my house. His name was Fabio ; it was from him 
that I got the name when I presented myself as a 
serving-man to old Orso. If anything had taken 
place in the house he must know it ; and she, 
Claudia, said the whole town knew it. 

‘‘ Fabio ! 

‘‘ My master ! '' 

He came into my room, and I looked at him 
steadily. 

Fabio, have you well looked after all I left in 
your hands when I went to Rome } '' 


326 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

‘‘Your rents are paid, your harvests taken in, the 
olives all gathered.” 

“ I left in your charge something more precious 
than corn fields and vineyards.” 

“ My lord ! ” 

“ I made you guardian of my honour. What of 
that ? ” 

He hesitated, and his voice, as he answered, 
trembled. 

“ Your honour is — intact.” 

I took him by the shoulders. 

“ Fabio, what is it ? I beseech you by your 
master, my father, to tell me.” 

I knew he loved my father’s memory with more 
than human love. He looked up to heaven, and 
clasped his hands ; he could hardly speak. 

“ By my dear master, your father, nothing, — 
nothing ! ” 

“ Fabio, you are lying.” I pressed his wrists, 
which I was holding clenched in my hands. 

He sank down on his knees. 

“ O master, have mercy on me ! ” He buried 
his face in his hands. “I cannot tell you.” 

“ Speak, man, speak ! ” 

At last, with laments and groans, he uttered the 
words : 

“ She has, — O God, she has betrayed you ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” I staggered back. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT, 


327 


‘^Forgive me!’’ 

‘‘ Why did you not tell me before ? ” 

‘‘ Ah, how could I ? You loved her as I have never 
seen man love woman.” 

‘‘ Did you not think of my honour 

‘‘ I thought of your happiness. It is better to have 
happiness without honour, than honour without hap- 
piness.” 

‘‘For you,” I groaned, “but not for me.” 

“You are of the same flesh and blood, and you 
suffer as we do. I could not destroy your happi- 
ness.” 

“ O Giulia, Giulia I ” Then, after a while, I asked 
again, “ But are you sure } ” 

“ Alas, there is no doubt ! ” 

“I cannot believe it. O God, help me! You 
don’t know how I loved her ! She could not ! Let 
me see it with my own eyes, Fabio.” 

We both stood silent ; then a horrible thought 
struck me. 

“ Do you know — when they meet ” I whispered. 

He groaned. I asked again. 

“ God help me ! ” 

“You know } I command you to tell me.” 

“They did not know you were coming back till 
after to-morrow.” 

“ He is coming } ” 

“ To-day.” 


328 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

‘‘ Oh ! I seized him by the hand. ‘‘ Take me, 
and let me see them.” 

‘^ What will you do.^” he asked, horror-stricken. 

Never mind, take me ! ” 

Trembling, he led me through anterooms and 
passages, till he brought me to a staircase. We 
mounted the steps and came to a little door. He 
opened it very quietly, and we found ourselves behind 
the arras of Giulia's chamber. I had forgotten the 
existence of door and steps, and she knew nothing 
of them. There was an opening in the tapestry to 
give exit. 

No one was in the room. We waited, holding 
our breath. At last Giulia entered. She walked to 
the window and looked out, and went back to the 
door. She sat down, but sprang up restlessly, and 
again looked out of the window. Whom was she 
expecting ? 

She walked up and down the room, and her face 
was full of anxiety. I watched intently. At last a 
light knock was heard ; she opened the door, and 
a man came in. A small, slight, thin man, with 
a quantity of corn-coloured hair falling over his 
shoulders, and a pale, fair skin. He had blue eyes, 
and a little golden moustache. He looked hardly 
twenty, but I knew he was older. 

He sprang forward, seizing her in his arms, and 
he pressed her to his heart, but she pushed him back. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 329 

‘‘ O Giorgio, you must go,'' she cried. He has 
come back." 

Your husband 1 " 

I hoped you would not come. Go quickly. If 
he found you he would kill us both." 

‘‘ Tell me you love me, Giulia." 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I love you with all my heart and 
soul." 

For a moment they stood still in one another's 
arms, then she tore herself away. 

‘‘ But go, for God's sake ! " 

I go, my love. Good-bye ! " 

Good-bye, beloved ! " 

He took her in his arms again, and she placed 
hers around his neck. They kissed one another 
passionately on the lips ; she kissed him as she had 
never kissed me. 

Oh ! " I gave a cry of rage, and leaped out of my 
concealment. In a bound I had reached him. They 
hardly knew I was there ; and I had plunged my 
dagger in his neck. Giulia gave a piercing shriek 
as he fell with a groan. The blood spattered over 
my hand. Then I looked at her. She ran from me 
with terror-stricken face, her eyes starting from her 
head. I rushed to her, and she shrieked again, but 
Fabio caught hold of my arm. 

“ Not her, not her, too ! " 

I wrenched my hand away from him, and then — 


330 


THE MAKING OP A SAINT 


then as I saw her pallid face and the look of deathly 
terror — I stopped. I could not kill her. 

‘‘ Lock that door,” I said to Fabio, pointing to the 
one from which we had come. Then, looking at her, 
I screamed : 

‘‘ Harlot ! ” 

I called to Fabio, and we left the room. I locked 
the door, and she remained shut in with her lover. . . 

I called my servants, and bade them follow me, 
and went out. I walked proudly, surrounded by my 
retainers, and I came to the house of Bartolomeo 
Moratini. He had just finished dinner, and was 
sitting with his sons. They rose as they saw me. 

Ah, Filippo, you have returned.” Then, seeing 
my pale face, they cried, But what is it } What 
has happened } ” 

And Bartolomeo broke in : 

‘‘What is that on your hand, Filippo .^” 

I stretched it out, so that he might see. 

“That — that is the blood of your daughter’s 
lover.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ I found them together, and I killed the adul- 
terer.” 

Bartolomeo kept silence a moment, then he said : 

“You have done well, Filippo.” He turned to 
his sons. “ Scipione, give me my sword.” 

He girded it on, and then he spoke to me. 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


331 


he said, beg you to wait here till I 

come/’ 

I bowed. 

‘‘ Sir, I am your servant.” 

“ Scipione, Alessandro, follow me ! ” 

And, accompanied by his sons, he left the room, 
and I remained alone. 

The servants peeped in at the door, looking at me 
as if I were some strange beast, and fled when I 
turned around. I walked up and down, up and down ; 
I looked out of the window. In the street the peo- 
ple were going to and fro, singing, and talking as if 
nothing had happened. They did not know that 
death was flying through the air ; they did not know 
that the happiness of living men had gone for ever. 

At last I heard the steps again, and Bartolomeo 
Moratini entered the room, followed by his sons ; and 
all three were very grave. 

‘‘Sir,” he said, “the stain on your honour and 
mine has been effaced.” 

I bowed more deeply than before. 

“ Sir, I am your very humble servant.” 

“ I thank you that you allowed me to do my duty 
as a father; and I regret that a member of my 
family should have shown herself unworthy of my 
name and yours. I will detain you no longer.” 

I bowed again, and left them. 


CHAPTER XL. 


I WALKED back to my house. It was very silent, 
and as I passed up the stairs the servants shrunk 
back, with averted faces, as if they were afraid to 
look at me. 

‘‘ Where is Fabio ? I asked. 

A page whispered, timidly : 

In the chapel.” 

I turned on my heel, and passed through the 
rooms, one after another, till I came to the chapel 
door. I pushed it open and entered. A dim light 
came through the painted windows, and I could 
hardly see. In the centre were two bodies covered 
with a cloth, and their heads were lighted by the 
yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt ap old 
man praying. It was Fabio. 

I advanced and drew back the cloth ; and I fell 
on my knees. Giulia looked as if she were sleeping. 
I had so often leant over her, watching the regular 
heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought 
her features as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. 
But now the breast would no more rise and fall, 


332 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


333 


and its wonderful soft whiteness was disfigured by 
a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips 
half parted, and the only difference from life was the 
fallen jaw. Her face was very pale; the rich waving 
hair encircled it as with an aureole. 

I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair 
hair contrasted wonderfully with hers. He looked 
so young ! 

Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, 
I thought of all that had happened, and I tried to 
understand. The dim light from the window gradu- 
ally failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out 
more brightly ; each was surrounded by a halo of 
light, and lit up the dead faces, throwing into deeper 
night the rest of the chapel. 

Little by little I seemed to see into the love of 
these two which had been so strong that no ties 
of honour, faith, or truth had been able to influence 
it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console 
myself. 

When she was sixteen, I thought, they married 
her to an old man she had never seen, and she met 
her husband’s cousin, a boy no older than herself. 
And the love started and worked its way. But the 
boy lived on his rich cousin’s charity ; from him he 
had received a home and protection and a thousand 
kindnesses ; he loved against his will, but he loved 


334 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a 
woman, passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. 
In the sensual violence of her love she had carried 
him away, and he had yielded. Then with enjoy- 
ment had come remorse, and he had torn himself 
away from the temptress and fled. 

I hardly knew what had happened when she was 
left alone, pining for her lover. Scandal said evil 
things. . . . Had she, too, felt remorse and tried to 
kill her love, and had the attempt failed ? And was 
it then she flung herself into dissipation to drown 
her trouble.^ Perhaps he told her he did not love 
her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in 
the arms of other lovers. But he loved her too 
strongly to forget her ; at last he could not bear the 
absence, and came back. And again with enjoyment 
came remorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, 
despising her. 

The years passed by, and her husband died. Why 
did he not come back to her ? Had he lost his love, 
and was he afraid ? I could not understand. . . . 

Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. 
Did she love me ? Perhaps his long absence had 
made her partly forget him, and she thought he had 
forgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I — I 
loved her with all my heart. I knew she loved me 
then ; she must have loved me ! But he came back. 
He may have thought himself cured, he may have 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


335 


said that he could meet her coldly and indifferently. 
Had I not said the same } But, as they saw one 
another, the old love burst out, again it burnt them 
with consuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I 
had made her faithless to the lover of her heart. 

The candles were burning low, throwing strange 
lights and shadows on the faces of the dead. 

Poor fool ! His love was as powerful as ever, but 
he fought against it with all the strength of his 
weak will. She was the Evil One to him ; she took 
his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his 
strength ; he felt that her kisses degraded him, and 
as he rose from her embrace he felt vile and mean. 
He vowed never to touch her again, and every time 
he broke the vow. But her love was the same as 
ever, — passionate, even heartless. She cared not if 
she consumed him, as long as she loved him. P"or 
her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. 
She cared for nothing ; it was all and all for love. 

He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me 
once more. Perhaps she felt sorry for my pain, 
perhaps she fancied my love would efface the re- 
membrance of him. And we were married. Ah ! 
now that she was dead I could allow her good 
intentions. She may have intended to be faithful 
to me ; she may have thought she could truly love 


336 THE MAKING OF A SAINT 

and honour me. Perhaps she tried ; who knows ? 
But love — love cares not for vows. It was too 
strong for her, too strong for him. I do not know 
whether she sent for him, or whether he, in the 
extremity of his passion, came to her ; but what had 
happened so often, happened again. They threw 
everything to the winds, and gave themselves over 
to the love that kills. . . . 

The long hours passed as I thought of these 
things, and the candles were burnt to their sockets. 

At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard 
Fabio's voice. 

‘‘ Master, it is nearly morning.'' 

I stood up, and he added : 

They put him in the chapel without asking me. 
You are not angry ? " 

^‘They did well." 

He hesitated a moment, and then asked : 

‘‘What shall I do.?" 

I looked at him, not understanding. 

“He cannot remain here, and she — she must be 
buried." 

“Take them to the church, and lay them in the 
tomb my father built, — together." 

“The man, too.?" he asked. “In your own 
tomb.?" 

I sighed, and answered, sadly : 

“ Perhaps he loved her better than I." 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


337 


As I spoke, I heard a sob at my feet. A man I 
had not seen took hold of my hand and kissed it, and 
I felt it wet with tears. 

“ Who are you I asked. 

‘‘ He has been here all the night,'’ said Fabio. 

‘‘ He was my master, and I loved him," replied the 
kneeling figure, in a broken voice. ** I thank you 
that you do not cast him out like a dog." 

I looked at him, and felt deep pity for his grief. 

‘‘ What will you do now ? " I asked. 

“ Alas ! now I am a wreck that tosses on the 
billows without a guide." 

I did not know what to say to him. 

‘‘ Will you take me as your servant ? I will be 
very faithful." 

‘‘Do you ask me that.^" I said. “Do you not 
know — " 

“ Ah, yes ! you took the life that he was glad to 
lose. It was almost a kindness ; and now you bury 
him peacefully, and for that I love you. You owe 
it to me ; you have robbed me of a master, give me 
another." 

“ No, poor friend ! I want no servants now. I, 
too, am like a wreck that drifts aimlessly across the 
seas. With me, too, it is finished." 

I looked once more at Giulia, and then I replaced 
the white cloth, and the faces were covered. 

“ Bring me my horse, Fabio." 


338 THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 

In a few minutes it was waiting for me. 

‘‘ Will you have no one to accompany you ? ’’ he 
asked. 

‘‘ No one ! '' 

Then, as I mounted and arranged the reins in my 
hand, he said : 

“ Where are you going } '' 

And I despairingly answered : 

“ God knows ! 







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CHAPTER XLI. 


And I rode away out of the town into the open 
country. The day was breaking, and everything was 
cold and gray. I paid no heed to my course ; I rode 
along, taking the roads as they came, through broad 
plains, eastwards towards the mountains. In the 
increasing day I saw the little river wind sinuously 
through the fields, and the country stretched flat 
before me, with slender trees marked out against the 
sky. Now and then a tiny hill was surmounted by a 
village, and once, as I passed, I heard the tinkling of 
a bell. I stopped at an inn to water the horse, and 
then, hating the sight of men, I hurried on. The 
hours of coolness had passed, and as we tramped 
along the shapeless roads, the horse began to sweat, 
and the-thick white dust rose in clouds behind us. 

At last I came to a roadside inn, and it was nearly 
midday. I dismounted, and giving the horse to the 
ostler’s care, I went inside and sat at a table. The 
landlord came to me and offered food. I could not 
eat, I felt it would make me sick ; I ordered wine. 
It was brought ; I poured some out and tasted it. 

339 


340 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


Then I put my elbows on the table and held my 
head with both hands, for it was aching so as almost 
to drive me mad. 

‘‘ Sir ! 

I looked up and saw a Franciscan friar standing 
by my side. On his back he bore a sack ; I supposed 
he was collecting food. 

“ Sir, I pray you for alms for the sick and needy.” 

I drew out a piece of gold and threw it to him. 

‘‘The roads are hard to-day,” he said. 

I made no answer. 

“ You are going far, sir .? '' 

“ When one gives alms to a beggar, it is so that he 
may not importune one,” I said. 

“ Ah, no ; it is for the love of God and charity. 
But I do not wish to importune you ; I thought I 
might help you.” 

“ I want no help.” 

“You look unhappy.” 

“ I beg you to leave me in peace.” 

“As you will, my son.” 

He left me, and I returned to my old position. I 
felt as if a sheet of lead were pressing upon my head. 
A moment later a gruff voice broke in upon me. 

“Ah, Messer Filippo Brandolini ! ” 

I looked up. At the first glance I did not recog- 
nise the speaker ; but then, as I cleared my mind, I 
saw it was Ercole Piacentini. What was he doing 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


341 


here ? Then I remembered that it was on the road 
to Forli. I supposed he had received orders to leave 
Gastello and was on his way to his old haunts. How- 
ever, I did not want to speak to him ; I bent down, 
and again clasped my head in my hands. 

‘‘ That is a civil way of answering,'' he said. ‘‘ Mes- 
ser Filippo ! " 

I looked up, rather bored. 

“ If I do not answer, it is evidently because I do 
not wish \o speak to you." 

‘‘ And if I wish to speak to you ? " 

‘‘ Then I must take the liberty of begging you to 
hold your tongue." 

You insolent fellow ! " 

I felt too miserable to be angry. 

“ Have the goodness to leave me," I said. You 
bore me intensely." 

I tell you that you are an insolent fellow, and I 
shall do as I please." 

Are you a beggar, that you are so importunate ? 
What do you want ? " 

‘‘ Do you remember saying in Forli that you would 
fight me when the opportunity presented itself It 
has ! And I am ready, for I have to thank you for 
my banishment from Gastello." 

‘‘ When I offered to fight you, sir, I thought you 
were a gentleman. Now that I know your condition, 
I must decline." 


342 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


‘‘ You coward ! 

‘‘ Surely it is not cowardice to refuse a duel with a 
person like yourself ? ’’ 

By this time he was wild with rage ; but I was 
cool and collected. 

‘‘Have you so much to boast?’' he asked, furi- 
ously. 

“ Happily I am not a bastard ! ” 

“ Cuckold ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” 

I sprang up and looked at him with a look of hor- 
ror. He laughed scornfully, and repeated : 

“ Cuckold ! ” 

Now it was my turn. The blood rushed to my 
head, and a terrible rage seized me. I picked up the 
tankard of wine which was on the table and flung it 
at him with all my might. The wine splashed over 
his face, and the cup hit him on the forehead and cut 
him so that the blood trickled down. In a moment 
he had drawn his sword, and at the same time I 
wrenched mine from its sheath. 

He could flght well. 

He could fight well, but against me he was lost. 
All the rage and agony of the last day gathered 
themselves together. I was lifted up, and cried aloud 
in the joy of having some one on whom to w'reak my 
vengeance. I felt as if I had against me the whole 
world and were pouring out my hate at the end of 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


343 


my sword. My fury lent me the strength of a devil. 
I drove him back, I drove him back, and I fought as 
I had never fought before. In a minute I had beaten 
the sword from his hand, and it fell to the floor as if 
his wrist were broken, clattering down among the 
cups. He staggered back against the wall, and 
stood there with his head thrown back, and his arms 
hopelessly outspread. 

‘‘ Ah, God, I thank thee ! ” I cried, exultingly. 
‘‘Now I am happy.’’ 

I lifted my sword above my head to cleave his 
skull, my arm was in the swing, — when I stopped. 
I saw the staring eyes, the white face blanched with 
terror ; he was standing against the wall as he had 
fallen, shrinking away in his mortal anxiety. I 
stopped ; I could not kill him. 

I sheathed my sword, and said : 

“ Go ! I will not kill you. I despise you too 
much.” 

He did not move, but stood as if he were turned 
to stone, still terror-stricken and afraid. Then, in 
my contempt, I took a horn of water and flung it 
over him. 

“You look pale, my friend,” I said. “Here is 
water to mix with your wine.” 

Then I leant back and burst into a shout of 
laughter, and I laughed till my sides ached, and I 
laughed again. 


344 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


I threw down money to pay for my entertainment, 
and went out. But as I bestrode my horse and we 
recommenced our journey along the silent roads, 
I felt my head ache worse than ever. All enjoy- 
ment was gone ; I could take no pleasure in life. 
How long would it last ? How long ? I rode along 
under the midday sun, and it fell scorching on my 
head ; the wretched beast trotted with hanging head, 
his tongue lolling out of his mouth, parched and 
dry. The sun beat down with all the power of 
August, and everything seemed livid with the awful 
heat. Man and beast had shrunk away from the fiery 
rays, the country folk were taking the noonday rest, 
the cattle and the horses sheltered by barns and 
sheds, the birds were silent, and even the lizards 
had crept into their holes. Only the horse and I 
tramped along, miserably, — only the horse and 
I. There was no shade ; the walls on either side 
were too low to give shelter, the road glaring and 
white and dusty. I might have been riding through 
a furnace. Everything was against me. Everything ! 
Even the sun seemed to beat down his hottest rays 
to increase my misery. What had I done that all 
this should come to me ? I clenched my fist, and 
in impotent rage cursed God. . . . 

At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with 
dark fir-trees ; I came nearer, and the sight of the 
sombre green was like a draught of cool water. I 


THE MAKING OF A Sa 


345 


could no longer bear the horror of t reat. From 
the main road another smaller one leJ winding up 
the hill. I turned my horse, and soon we were 
among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight 
in the coolness. I dismounted, and led him by the 
bridle ; it was enchanting to walk along the path, 
soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious green 
smell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, 
where was a little pond ; I watered the poor 
beast, and, throwing myself down, drank deeply. 
Then I tied him to a tree and advanced a few steps 
alone. I came to a sort of terrace, and, going 
forward, found myself at the edge of the hill, look- 
ing over the plain. Behind, the tall fir-trees gave 
me shade and coolness ; I sat down, looking at the 
country before me. In the cloudless sky it seemed 
now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I 
could see the walls and towers of some city, and to it, 
in broad curves, wound a river ; the maize and corn, 
vines and olive-trees, covered the land, and in the 
distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why 
should the world be so beautiful, and I so miserable "i 

‘‘ It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.” 

I looked up, and saw the monk whom I had spoken 
with at the inn. He put down his sack and sat by 
my side. 

‘‘You do not think me importunate.?” he asked. 

“I beg your pardon,” I replied, “I was not civil 


346 


MAKING OF A SAINT. 


to you ; yl uust forgive me. I was not my- 
self.’’ ^ • 

‘‘ Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came 
down to you to offer you our hospitality.” 

I looked at him questioningly ; he pointed over his 
shoulder, and, looking, I saw, perched on the top of 
the hill, piercing through the trees, a little monastery. 

‘‘ How peaceful it looks ! ” I said. 

It is, indeed. St. Francis himself used some- 
times to come to enjoy the quiet.” 

I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the 
life I hated, and also enjoy the quiet I felt the 
monk was watching me, and, looking up, I met his 
glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply sunken 
eyes and hollow cheeks. And he was pale and worn 
from prayer and fasting. But his voice was sweet 
and very gentle. 

‘‘ Why do you look at me ” I said. 

‘‘ I was in the tavern when you disarmed the man 
and gave him his life.” 

‘‘ It was not for charity and mercy,” I said, bitterly. 

‘‘ I know,” he answered, “ it was from despair.” 

How do you know ? ” 

‘‘ I watched you ; and at the end I said, * God pity 
his unhappiness.’ ” 

I looked with astonishment at the strange man ; 
and then, with a groan, I said : 

Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.” 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


347 


He took my hands in his, and, with the gentleness 
of the mother of God herself, replied : 

‘ Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest.’ ” 

Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried 
my face in his bosom, and burst into tears. 


EPILOGUE. 


And now many years have passed, and the noble 
gentleman, Filippo Brandolini, is the poor monk 
Giuliano ; the gorgeous clothes, velvets, and satins 
have given way to the brown sackcloth of the 
Seraphic Father ; and, instead of golden belts, my 
waist is girt with a hempen cord. And in me, what 
changes have taken place ! The brown hair, which 
women kissed, is a little circlet in sign of the Re- 
deemer’s crown, and it is as white as snow. My eyes 
are dim and sunken, my cheeks are hollow, and the 
skin of my youth is ashy and wrinkled ; the white 
teeth of my mouth have gone, but my toothless gums 
suffice for the monkish fare ; and I am old and bent 
and weak. 

One day in the spring I came to the terrace which 
overlooks the plain, and as I sat down to warm my- 
self in the sunshine, gazing at the broad country 
which now I knew so well, and the distant hills, the 
wish came to me to write the history of my life. 

348 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 


349 


And now that, too, is done. I have nothing more 
to tell, except that, from the day when I arrived, weary 
of soul, at the cool shade of the fir-trees, I have never 
gone into the world again. I gave my lands and 
palaces to my brother, in the hope that he would 
make better use of his life than I, and to him I gave 
the charge of seeing that heirs were given to the 
ancient name. I knew I had failed in everything. 
My life had gone-wrong, I know not why, and I had 
not the courage to adventure further. I withdrew 
from the battle in my unfitness, and let the world 
pass on and forget my poor existence. 

Checco lived on, scheming and intriguing, wearing 
away his life in attempts to regain his fatherland, 
and always he was disappointed, always his hopes 
frustrated, till at last he despaired. And after six 
years, worn out with his fruitless efforts, mourning 
the greatness he had lost, and pining for the country 
he loved so well, he died of a broken heart, an exile. 

Matteo went back to his arms and the reckless life 
of the soldier of fortune, and was killed bravely fight- 
ing against the foreign invader, and died, knowing 
that his efforts, too, had been in vain, and that the 
sweet land of Italy lay fallen and enslaved. 

And I do not know whether they had not the 
better lot, for they are at peace, while I — I pursue 
my lonely pilgrimage through life, and the goal is 


350 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT. 


ever far off. Now it cannot be much longer ; my 
strength is failing, and soon I shall have the peace I 
wished for. O God, I do not ask you for crowns 
of gold and heavenly raiment, I do not aspire to the 
bliss which is the portion of the saint, but give me 
rest. When the great release comes, give me rest ; 
let me sleep the long sleep without awakening, so 
that at last I may forget and be at peace. O God, 
give me rest ! 

Often, as I trudged along the roads, barefooted, to 
gather food and alms, have I wished to lay myself in 
the ditch by the wayside and die. Sometimes I have 
heard the beating of the wings of the Angel of 
Death ; but he has taken the strong and the happy, 
and left me to wander on. 

The good man told me I should receive happiness ; 
I have not even received forgetfulness. I go along 
the roads thinking of my life and the love that ruined 
me. Ah ! how weak I am ; but, forgive me, I cannot 
help myself ! Sometimes, when I have been able to 
do good, I have felt a strange delight, I have. felt the 
blessed joy of charity. And I love my people, the 
poor folk of the country around. They come to me 
in their troubles, and when I can help them I share 
their pleasure. But that is all I have. Ah ! mine 
has been a useless life, I have wasted it ; and if of 
late I have done a little good to my fellow men, alas ! 
how little ! 


THE MAKING OF A SAINT 35 I 

I bear my soul in patience, but sometimes I can- 
not help rising up against fate, and crying out that it 
is hard that all this should happen to me. Why } 
What had I done that I should be denied the little 
happiness of this world ? Why should I be more 
unhappy than others } But then I chide myself, and 
ask whether I have indeed been less happy. Are 
they any of them happy } Or are those right who 
say that the world is misery, and that the only 
happiness is to die ? Who knows ? 

Ah, Giulia, how I loved thee ! 

O Ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova ? 

Tutti tornate alia gran madre antica, 

E’l nome vostro appena si ritrova. 

Blind that ye are ! How doth this struggle profit you? 

Return ye must to the great Antique Mother, 

And even your name scarcely remains. 


THE END. 




















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I vol., library i2mo, cloth .... $1.50 

Mr. Dole’s study of Persian literature and history admirably 
equips him to enter into the life and spirit of the time of the 
romance, and the hosts of admirers of the inimitable quatrains 
of Omar Khayyam, made famous by Fitzgerald, will be deeply 
interested in a tale based on authentic facts in the career of the 
famous Persian poet. The three chief characters are Omar 
Khayyam, Nizam-ul-Mulk, the generous and high-minded Vizier 
of the Tartar Sultan Malik Shah of Mero, and Hassan ibu 
Sabbah, the ambitious and revengeful founder of the sect of 
the Assassins. The scene is laid partly at Naishapur, in the 
Province of Khorasan, which about the period of the First 
Crusade was at its acme of civilization and refinement, and 
partly in the mountain fortress of Alamut, south of the Cas- 
pian Sea, where the Ismailians under Hassan established them- 
selves towards the close of the nth century. Human nature is 
always the same, and the passions of love and ambition, of 
religion and fanaticism, of friendship and jealousy, are admira- 
bly contrasted in the fortunes of these three able and remark- 
able characters as well as in those of the minor personages of 
the story. 


6 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


Captain Fracasse. 

A new translation from the French of Gotier. IV 
lustrated by Victor A. Searles. 

I voL, library i2mo, cloth .... $1.25 

This famous romance has been out of print for some time, 
and a new translation is sure to appeal to its many admirers, 
who have never yet had any edition worthy of the story. 

The Rejuvenation of JTiss Semaphore. 

A farcical novel. By Hal Godfrey. Illustrated 
by Etheldred B. Barry. (In press.) 

I voL, library 12 mo, cloth .... $1.25 

A fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain 
age who are induced, by their natural longing for a return to 
youth and its blessings, to pay a large sum for a mystical water 
which possesses the value of setting backwards the hands of 
time. No more delightfully fresh and original book has ap- 
peared since “Vice Versa” charmed an amused world. It is 
well written, drawn to the life, and full of the most enjoy- 
able humor. 

Midst the Wild Carpathians. 

By Maurus Jokai, author of “ Black Diamonds,” 
“The Lion of Janina,” etc. Authorized translation 
by R. Nisbet Bain. Illustrated. (In press.) 

I voL, library 12 mo, cloth .... $1.25 

A thrilling, historical, Hungarian novel, in which the extraor- 
dinary dramatic and descriptive powers of the great Magyar 
writer have full play. As a picture of feudal life in Hungary it 
has never been surpassed for fidelity and vividness. The trans- 
lation is exceedingly well done. 

The Golden Dog. 

A Romance of Quebec. By William Kirby. New 
authorized edition. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 
I voL, library 12 mo, cloth . . . . $1.25 

A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the 
time of Louis XV. and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French 
colonies were making their great struggle to retain for an un- 
grateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of 
France. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION. 


7 


Bijli the Dancer. 

By James Blythe Patton. Illustrated by Horace 
Van Rinth. (In press.) 

I voL, library 12 mo, cloth .... $1.50 

A novel of Modern India. The fortunes of the heroine, 
an Indian Naucht girl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a 
wealth of poetic sympathy that makes the book admirable from 
first to last. 

“ To Arms I ” 

Being Some Passages from the Early Life of Allan 
Oliphant, Chirurgeon, Written by Himself, and now 
Set Forth for the First Time. By Andrew Balfour. 
Illustrated. (In press.) 

I voL, library 12 mo, cloth .... $1.50 

A romance dealing with an interesting phase of Scottish and 
English history, the Jacobite Insurrection of 1715, which will 
appeal strongly to the great number of admirers of historical 
fiction. The story is splendidly told, the magic circle which 
the author draws about the reader compelling a complete 
forgetfulness of prosaic nineteenth century life. 

Mere Folly. 

A novel. By Maria Louise Poole, author of In a 
Dike Shanty,” etc. Illustrated. (In press.) 

I vol., library 12 mo, cloth .... $1.25 

An extremely well-written story of modern life. The interest 
centres in the development of the character of the heroine, a 
New England girl, whose high-strung temperament is in con- 
stant revolt against the confining limitations of nineteenth 
century surroundings. The reader’s interest is held to the end, 
and the book will take high rank among American psychologi- 
cal novels. 

A Hypocritical Romance and other 
stories. 

By Caroline Ticknor. Illustrated by J. W. Ken- 
nedy. I vol., large i6mo, cloth . . $1.00 

Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of 
the younger school of American writers, has never done better 
work than in the majority of these clever stories, written in a 
delightful comedy vein. 


8 


L. C, PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


Cross Trails. 

By Victor Waite. Illustrated. (In press.) 

I voL, library lamo, cloth .... $1.50 

A Spanish-American novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, 
dashing, and stirring story, teeming with humanity and life. 
Mr. Waite is to be congratulated upon the strength with which 
he has drawn his characters. 

A Mad Madonna and other stories. 

By L. Clarkson Whitelock, with eight half-tone 
illustrations, i voL, large i6mo, cloth . $i.oo 

A half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in 
color and conception. Each of the six has a touch of the super- 
natural, a quick suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy 
realism that is matchless in its forceful execution. 

On the Point. 

A Summer Idyl. By Nathan Haskell Dole, au- 
thor of “ Not Angels Quite,” with dainty half-tone 
illustrations as chapter headings. 

I voL, large i6mo, cloth .... $i.oo 

A bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of Maine, 
fresh, breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. 
The narrative describes the summer outing of a Mr. Merrithew 
and his family. The characters are all honest, pleasant people, 
whom we are glad to know. We part from them with the 
same regret with which we leave a congenial party of friends. 

Cavalleria Rusticana; or, Under the 
Shadow of Etna. 

Translated from the Italian of Giovanni Verga, by 
Nathan Haskell Dole. Illustrated by Etheldred 
B. Barry, i voL, i6mo, cloth . . . $0.50 

Giovanni Verga stands at present as unquestionably the 
most prominent of the Italian novelists. His supremacy in 
the domain of the short story and in the wider range of the 
romance is recognized both at home and abroad. The present 
volume contains a selection from the most dramatic and char- 
acteristic of his Sicilian tales. Verga is himself a native of 
Sicily,' and his knowledge of that wonderful country, with its 
poetic and yet superstitious peasantry, is absolute. Such 
pathos, humor, variety, and dramatic quality are rarely met 
in a single volume. 



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